


Filter

by h_lovely



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Background IwaOi - Freeform, Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Friends With Benefits, Irony, Lace Panties, M/M, Makeup, Modeling, One Night Stands, Pining, Porn With Plot, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex while intoxicated, Strangers to Lovers, dirty talk and banter, dom/sub undertones if you squint, makeup artist makki, matsukawa is Whipped, photographer Mattsun, unapologetic use of the word pretty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2020-07-25 17:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20029351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h_lovely/pseuds/h_lovely
Summary: Matsukawa meets a pretty boy who wears lipstick and designer underwear.





	1. gloss

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am back on my bullshit with another self-indulgent matsuhana au...I can't promise any sort of update schedule, but I hope I can entice you enough with the simple thought of whipped photographer Matsukawa and enigmatic makeup artist Hanamaki that you'll stick with this through to the end. Tags will probably be updated as things unfold a bit more.
> 
> Thank you for any and all kudos/comments/love. You can retweet on twitter too, if that's your thing! <3
> 
> [theme music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tUwUenVk7zc)  
  


The atmosphere is pretty much exactly what Matsukawa had expected. House music thumps too loud in his ears, bass crawling up the length of his spine with every step farther away from the forgiving midnight air outside. Lights, currently cycling through a seemingly random pattern of neon greens, flash and strobe and do nothing whatsoever to soothe his inevitable oncoming headache. 

A shot glass is thrust in his direction, dangerously close to sloshing onto the black lacquer tabletop. The clear liquid glints under the lights, an unappealing teal.

He really shouldn’t—_really_ shouldn’t considering he’s got a consultation in the morning and ‘hungover’ is not anywhere near close to the shoot’s theme. 

Matsukawa pinches the slippery glass rim between his thumb and forefinger and knocks it back anyways. He swallows hard, blinks away dancing bright spots from his vision. 

“What—are you trying to get me _drunk?_” 

This directed towards the two men across the table, spoken with the maximum amount of dramatic incredulity. He keeps his expression as blank as possible, even as his throat absolutely _burns_. 

“Not _drunk_, Mattsun,” Oikawa says (_pouts_—he’s already wobbly with his own alcohol intake). “Just—trying to loosen you up a bit.”

Matsukawa takes his time to level a sharp finger at Oikawa’s face. “You’re being a dirty enabler.”

“Dirty?” Oikawa huffs, entirely-too offended. “Don’t make me get Hajime involved.”

“Hajime is not getting involved,” Iwaizumi says blandly where he’s tucked against Oikawa’s shoulder and nursing a light beer, bottle slick with condensation. “Whether you think you can make me or not.”

“But—”

“Like I said—an enabler,” Matsukawa interrupts unapologetically. The words feel heavy in his mouth, even if his brain feels lighter than it has in a while. “I don’t need to get drunk to loosen up. In fact, I don’t need to loosen up at all. I’m plenty—_loose_.”

Iwaizumi snorts openly, quirking a brow in Matsukawa’s direction. “Tooru—what was in that shot?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Oikawa shrugs, the silky collar of his shirt sliding just a bit off to one side. “Mattsun, let’s not argue—tonight is about _you_.”

“That’s a first, coming from you.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Matsukawa smirks, ready with any easy retort—

“_That you’re a self-centered asshole_.”

It’s almost as though the words were stolen straight out of his mouth. But—that’s not possible, even if Matsukawa’s foggy-drunk brain tries to convince himself of the feasibility. But, _really_—

“Makki!” Oikawa squawks, nearly toppling both he and Iwaizumi as he spins to greet the person who may or may not share a telepathic link with Matsukawa’s sub-conscience. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking to _loosen up_,” the stranger replies, scooting up to their table. “That’s what you do at clubs, isn’t it?”

Matsukawa has half a mind to roll his eyes at the obvious jab, but before his brain can fire off the command he finds himself stuck.

Specifically—stuck _staring_. 

The guy (‘_Makki_,’ Oikawa called him) is wearing this incredibly low-cut black tank, not much fabric going on at all, and it reveals a milky swath of skin stretched soft over a long neck and sharp collarbones. His hair is dyed some shade of pink, though Matsukawa can’t quite pin it down because the overhead lights have since decided to melt into a glow of fuchsia and purple. But perhaps what catches and holds Matsukawa’s gaze the firmest are the thick lashes framing a pair of heavy lidded eyes, the swipe of glittery-smoke shadow, the fullness of his lips shining with a creamy layer of gloss. 

Matsukawa thinks, absently, that he probably shouldn’t have taken that last shot. 

“Haven’t seen you around in a while,” Iwaizumi’s voice comes through the static in Matsukawa’s ears. “Been good?”

“Better than ever,” Makki nods and when he leans against the table Matsukawa can just make out the curved line of his back if he tilts his peripheral vision just right. “You guys look better than ever too.”

Naturally Oikawa preens at the compliment, but Matsukawa can detect the exact second Makki’s attention is diverted. “Well of course, Makki-chan. You _know_—”

“Who’s your friend?” 

Oikawa, surprisingly enough, doesn’t look too terribly put-out at being so rudely interrupted as he follows the man’s gaze where it’s burning a hole straight through Matsukawa’s partially exposed chest. 

“Oh, um—” Oikawa blinks, eyes going owlish. “This is Mattsun.”

Makki looks him up and down, up and down, _assessing_. His lashes are so plush they must be false and when he tilts his head to the side, something brazenly curious in his gaze, a stripe of pearlescent highlighter on his cheekbone catches the violet neon light. 

The noise of the club doesn’t sound the same anymore, the music just a background hum to the violent crash of waves inside of Matsukawa’s head as Makki stares at him, entirely unabashed. 

He has to clear his throat, isn’t even sure his voice will work until he’s already halfway through introducing himself properly. “Matsukawa Issei,” he says and even if it’s a bit more gravelly than usual, he’s just thankful his voice doesn’t actually _crack_. 

“Issei, hm?” comes the response, those lips pursing into a plush smile. “I’m Hanamaki, but you can call me Takahiro if you like that better. Wanna buy me a drink?” 

“_Makki_,” Oikawa warns and suddenly the roundness of his eyes cuts down to narrow slits.

But whatever Oikawa has detected that’s got his hackles so suddenly raised, Hanamaki chooses to ignore in favor of leaning further into Matsukawa’s space. “Or maybe you’re the dancing type?”

Normally, Matsukawa would heed whatever’s got Oikawa on edge, his friend’s instincts none to be trifled with. But somehow—Hanamaki’s leaning into him, the warmth of his shoulder brushing against Matsukawa’s and when he breathes in sharply at the contact he’s assaulted by a mix of something amber and floral. It’s definitely not any cologne he’s ever come across before, more powdery and soft—not necessarily feminine, but definitely _perfume_. 

Matsukawa has enough mental capacity still to catch Iwaizumi’s hand latching onto Oikawa’s forearm, rubbing into the skin there in a comforting way. He thinks there’s definitely more than meets the eye here, something underlying maybe, but his mind is so overcome with the buzz of alcohol and Hanamaki’s proximity that he can’t begin to think about dissecting anything further. 

It’s been a long few weeks—wasn’t it Oikawa’s idea to come here in the first place to _loosen_ him up?

“Whatever you want,” Matsukawa finds himself saying, words pitched low and in the vague direction of Hanamaki’s ear. He doesn't exactly mean for it to sound like any sort of innuendo, but—

“_Whatever_, huh?” Hanamaki’s smile turns a little darker than before, or maybe it’s just the lights playing tricks on the glossy surface of his lips. “That’s a fun thought.” 

Matsukawa can’t help but find himself entirely entranced, unable to pull away when Hanamaki threads fingers through his own and tugs. “Dancing it is then.” 

Oikawa may or may not have something to say about this decision, but Matsukawa is so tuned out already that if he does say anything to their retreating backs, it isn’t heard. Possibly a mistake, or possibly not. With the way Hanamaki’s ass looks in those jeans as he pulls Matsukawa behind him towards the dance floor, he thinks probably it doesn’t matter either way. 

They push their way into the crowd, sweltering and swaying with the beat of heavy bass. Hanamaki’s palm is smooth where it presses into Matsukawa’s own, grip firm and steady. His mind feels a little dizzy for a moment as the lights flicker to something orange, casting Hanamaki’s hair a rose-gold and Matsukawa has to try his hardest not to stumble. He wonders vaguely if Hanamaki’s had quite as much to drink, considering he seems considerably more in control of his actions. 

There’s a little pocket of free space that Hanamaki finds in the middle of the crowd, angling a look behind him as if to check in. Matsukawa catches the bit of question in Hanamaki’s gaze and nods, bringing his free hand up to grasp at the other man’s shoulder, squeezing the lean muscle there unconsciously. 

Seemingly satisfied with the bit of non-verbal communication, Hanamaki’s lips pull into something pleased and in the next second he turns so his backside is pressed firmly against Matsukawa’s front, leaving absolutely no room for doubt at this point 

It’s been a while since Matsukawa’s danced in a place like this. In all honesty it makes him feel a bit awkward, maybe a bit too old considering the last time had probably been sometime back in his university days. He thinks, as Hanamaki’s hips rock with a powerful ease to the music, that he’s a little bit out of his depth. 

Still, he’s at least got alcohol on his side and whatever spell he’d been placed under to get him out on the dance floor in the first place hasn’t even begun to fade in the slightest. So, without giving his brain time to overthink, Matsukawa lets his hands slide into place around the dip in Hanamaki’s waist. 

“You feel tense.” Hanamaki leans back against his chest, their heights comparable enough that his lips are able to find Matsukawa’s ear without much twisting. “Something on your mind?”

Matsukawa doesn’t miss the playful tone there, the insinuation, especially when Hanamaki grinds his ass a bit more shamelessly to get his point across. There’s a layer of shimmer over Hanamaki’s collarbones, glittery and eye-catching, especially from this proximity and Matsukawa has the sudden urge to run his mouth along all that exposed skin.

Instead he kneads his thumbs into Hanamaki’s hips, little circles that he tries to time to the reverberating beat. “Not particularly, it’s just—” he swallows, wetting his lips. “You’re—_different_.”

Hanamaki chuckles, the sound low enough that it doesn’t reach Matsukawa’s ears, but he does feel it vibrating up through his chest where the other’s back is starting to cling. “Gonna take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” Matsukawa nods, the song changes and so does the lighting, growing darker and more red than gold. “Different’s good for me.”

“_Oh?_” It’s practically a purr. 

Matsukawa realizes, in some out-of-body way, that it’s not all those shots that’s got his tongue so loose anymore. “Been with too much of the same—need a change,” he explains, like it’s obvious. 

“So that’s what Oikawa’s deal is,” Hanamaki mutters back, almost too soft to make out. “Coming off a bad breakup? Need someone to help you forget?”

“Don’t make it sound like that—I’m not the rebound type.”

“No? Sure seems like you need to forget though.”

Hanamaki angles himself enough that he’s still pressed against his body, but he’s able to wind a hand through the damp curls at Matsukawa’s nape. This allows them a small amount of eye contact, enough for Matsukawa to catch the smoldering look in Hanamaki’s half-lidded gaze. 

Perhaps a bit brazenly, Matsukawa rolls his hips forward just enough to make his point clear. “Already forgotten.” 

“Mm,” Hanamaki hums, eyes dipping closed and Matsukawa wonders if that flush he can see blooming on his cheeks is just his makeup or something a bit more natural. “Maybe.”

Matsukawa can feel himself growing hard, no surprise there all things considered, but he wonders if Hanamaki is just in this for the flirty banter or something more. He doesn’t want to assume, but also he can’t quite help the way his grip flexes when the plush of Hanamaki’s ass grinds just a bit firmer than before.

“You’re pretty,” Matsukawa blurts, trying his best to swallow the moan building in his chest. 

“Yeah?” Hanamaki’s fingers curl in his hair, nails scraping just enough to be pleasant against Matsukawa’s skin. “D’you like the pretty types, Issei?”

There’s something in his voice; it’s naturally deep, but somehow it seems to have grown even more reverberant in the time they’ve been pressed together. He sounds almost pleased, but there’s also something else there too, something perhaps even skeptical. Matsukawa’s subconscious is so fuzzy though that he can’t really be certain. 

“I like you,” he confesses, feeling no amount of the mortification he might feel if he were saying such a line completely sober. 

Hanamaki moves then, pulling away from Matsukawa’s grip, and he thinks for a second that he’s definitely said the wrong thing. But then there’s a solid thigh squirming it’s way between Matsukawa’s legs and Hanamaki presses their chests together, warm and slick between the thin fabric of their shirts. 

Matsukawa must have an absolutely ridiculous look on his face, because Hanamaki’s expression goes from sultry to utterly amused in the span of a single heartbeat. Matsukawa can’t even find the wherewithal to be embarrassed, considering how endearing Hanamaki’s eye-smile is, all teeth and stretched shimmery lips. 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Hanamaki says and his tone is lighter, less seductive but no less alluring. “So—think I can help you out?”

Matsukawa doesn’t know at all how to respond to that. He thinks of Oikawa’s face, the weird bit of wariness there. But he also thinks about the thick thigh slotted against the hardness in his suddenly too-tight pants. 

“Don’t need help,” he lies, entirely unconvincingly. 

Hanamaki laughs, a puff of warm air against Matsukawa’s neck. “You keep telling yourself that,” he rumbles and now that sexual implication is back and more pointed than ever. He sways his hips, pulls Matsukawa along with him to the thrum of blood pounding between them. “In the meantime—let me show you what’s so very _different_ about me, hm?”

This time Matsukawa can’t find a way to deny him. 

* * *

On the train ride back to Matsukawa’s place, Hanamaki had given him plenty of space. Maybe it was due to the eyes following them along the station platform or else just a chance for some breathing room, some time for alcohol-fogged minds to clear.

Either way, by the time they’ve made it through Matsukawa’s front door the tension has grown to monumental heights. 

They’re barely out of the genkan when Matsukawa’s back slams against the wall, rattling a few photographs in their frames. Hanamaki is a lot stronger than he appears, arms caging him in and hips rutting shamelessly against the meat of Matsukawa’s thigh. There’s a pair of soft lips crawling up his neck, over his pounding pulse—they’re already sticky and slick.

Hanamaki mouths along Matsukawa’s jaw, a tease of tongue and teeth, and when Matsukawa groans at the sensation there’s a pause and Hanamaki’s eyes glint through the darkness.

“Don’t wanna mess up your makeup,” Matsukawa says, slurs more likely. He doesn’t even know why or where it comes from, but he can already see where Hanamaki’s pink gloss has smudged and wonders vaguely what kind of marks it’s left behind on _him_.

Matsukawa feels a lot more clear-headed than he did under the dizzying club lights, but it’s something else now that’s got him feeling entirely off-balance. 

Hanamaki drags a finger down the front of Matsukawa’s throat, dips into the valley of his collarbones where they peak out from the collar of his shirt. “Oh, but see that’s the thing,” he murmurs, low and heady. “I _do_ want you to mess it up.” 

It’s enough for Matsukawa, enough for him to feel confident in curling fingers through Hanamaki’s short-clipped hair and tugging him forward into a crooked kiss. His mouth is warm, as warm as it’d been creeping up his neck, but now Matsukawa can taste something on his tongue: the remnants of too-sweet drinks and bitter desire. 

It seems Hanamaki is a pro at multitasking, taking everything Matsukawa gives him and pressing even more back, all-the-while twisting fingers along the buttons of Matsukawa’s shirt until every last one is undone and there are warm palms settling against his chest. 

Gasping, Hanamaki tears his lips away in order to better run his eyes down Matsukawa’s newly bare skin. “Fuck, _so hot_,” he says with the tiniest bit of a whine that shoots straight to Matsukawa’s cock. “Didn’t strike me as the muscle-head type.”

“Muscle-head?” Matsukawa scoffs, feeling a trickle of amusement playing over his features. “I just go to the gym.”

Hanamaki tilts his neck back to look at him down the bridge of his nose. The movement catches moonbeams from the living room window, playing glittering light down the expanse of his creamy neck. “You’ve got a fucking eight-pack,” he announces as though it’s some kind of injustice. 

This time Matsukawa finally let’s a chuckle loose from his chest. Hanamaki isn’t what he’d expected at all—he’s gorgeous and confident with his words, a little mouthy and certainly forward, but also—

“You’re weird,” Matsukawa says, hands flexing down the planes of Hanamaki’s back to grip at his waist. “Kinda funny.”

“Different, weird, funny—what else, Issei? Tell it to me straight,” Hanamaki smirks, cheeks rounded with his obvious teasing. But the way Matsukawa’s name rolls off his tongue—it provokes something, ignites a flame that up until now had been only simmering low in his stomach. 

He squeezes his fingers into Hanamaki’s soft skin, leans forward to breathe against the shell of his ear. “Mind if we take this banter to the bedroom?” 

Matsukawa is ready for an enthusiastic response, but instead he finds himself pushed back against the wall with Hanamaki’s hands still braced against his chest. “Just a sec, m’not done here,” Hanamaki purrs before suddenly he’s dropping straight down to his knees. 

The floor is hard cold tile so it can’t be too comfortable (Matsukawa knows from experience.) But Hanamaki doesn’t complain, dipping his fingers into the waistband of Matsukawa’s pants, tugging at the button and zipper and before things can really start to click back into place Matsukawa’s hard cock is bobbing over Hanamaki’s painted lips. 

“Hh—_fuck_,” Matsukawa thinks he says, not entirely sure, because Hanamaki’s tongue is hot and so wet where it flicks out to trace against the underside of his sensitive flesh. 

Thankfully the wall behind him is more than capable of holding Matsukawa’s weight, because he can’t help slumping into it when Hanamaki first takes him fully into his mouth. His lips are already shining at the edges and when he presses forward, sucks Matsukawa nearly all the way to the back of his throat, Hanamaki makes a point to tilt his gaze up so he can stare through those thick, velvety lashes. 

_Shit_, Matsukawa’s not really sure how much of this he’s going to be able to take. It’s been a little while after all since he’s had his dick in something quite so warm and welcoming and Hanamaki is clearly practiced considering he knows _just_ where to press his tongue.

Matsukawa’s apartment is quiet and the wet noises Hanamaki is making are loud and obscene. He’s wearing these rings, silver and cool against Matsukawa’s hot skin where he grips around the base, where his mouth can’t quite cover. When he pulls back, Hanamaki splays his tongue over the head and slit and Matsukawa’s hips stutter forward. 

“_Big_,” Hanamaki breathes playfully against him, voice already sounding a bit raspier than before. “Don’t know if it’ll all fit—but I’ll let you try if you want to.” 

And as much as Matsukawa would like nothing more than to shove his cock into the tight heat of Hanamaki’s throat, wipe that smirk off his lips and cover them in something other than gloss—

“No,” Matsukawa says, deeper and more affected than he expects. He reaches forward to swipe at a bit of wetness caught on Hanamaki’s cheek. “Let’s get you off your knees—my bed’s much more comfortable.”

Hanamaki laughs, something pleasant and vibrating up from his lungs. He eyes Matsukawa with a tilt of his head before getting his feet back under him to stand. 

“What a gentleman,” he teases—and it’s clearly a tease, if Matsukawa’s learned anything about reading Hanamaki in the past hour or so. “You’re being so nice, Issei.”

Matsukawa swallows, purses his lips. “Didn’t say anything about being nice.”

“How’d you know—” Hanamaki leans in, words tangling between them. “—that’s just what I like?”

On impulse, Matsukawa grabs at the back of Hanamaki’s neck, tugging him forward for a few sloppy kisses before turning them both back towards the bedroom. Hanamaki follows more than willingly, pressing into Matsukawa’s side and tucking himself under his arm with another breathy laugh. 

Matsukawa’s apartment is small, but not cheap. Walls painted a crisp white, fixtures modern and stainless, bedroom comfortable and complete with a queen-sized bed perfect for sprawling out on. 

Hanamaki takes advantage easily enough, using his weight to push and pull Matsukawa along until he finds himself pressed into the middle of the bed with Hanamaki’s thighs, thick with muscle, bracketing his hips. They’re both mostly still clothed, except where Matsukawa’s shirt hangs limply to the sides and his pants are open just enough to expose. 

“Like being on top?” he asks, eyes glued to the deep curve of Hanamaki’s loose shirt.

Hanamaki’s mouth tugs up at one corner. “Top, bottom—either way’s fine with me,” he says. “But I’ve been thinking about riding you ever since the dance floor.”

_Unreal_, Matsukawa decides, is maybe the best word to use at this point. 

“W-whatever you want,” Matsukawa answers, just like he had at the club earlier, only this time it’s more reality than innuendo. 

Hanamaki makes a pleased sound in his throat, circling his hips where they sit heavy over Matsukawa’s cock, still trapped in his pre-cum smeared briefs. “Lube, condoms?”

Matsukawa can’t help it if his hips thrust up into the plush of Hanamaki’s ass when he jostles to the side to rifle through his bedside table. But he does enjoy the affronted squeak that knocks from Hanamaki’s lungs in the process. 

When they’re settled again, Matsukawa revels in the feel of Hanamaki’s weight pressing him down into the mattress. He pops the cap on a half empty bottle of lube. 

“Strawberry, really?” Hanamaki huffs as the artificially sweet scent starts to fill the meager air between them. 

Matsukawa shrugs as much as he can, tapping at Hanamaki’s hip before getting his fingers wet. “Pants off,” he orders. 

Hanamaki seems more than eager to comply, starting first by tugging his tank off straight over his head before moving down to the glinting silver button of his jeans. They’re so tight that Hanamaki has to shuffle back off of Matsukawa’s hips in order to wriggle out of them, tossing his clothes carelessly to the floor, but Matsukawa’s suddenly more distracted by something else to really care. 

The first thing he notices is the black ink crawling its way up Hanamaki’s left thigh—two thick petaled peonies nestled amidst a smattering of freckles and milky skin. The tattoo is very pretty, delicate in a way, but sharp around the edges and Matsukawa has the sudden urge to run his tongue over each petal.

The second thing is—

_Lace_. Black floral lace that hugs Hanamaki’s ass like a glove. It’s not high-cut or cheeky like some of the lingerie Matsukawa’s photographed before, but more like tight little shorts with a heavy black waistband that reads _Versace_ in bold, white lettering. 

He’s wearing designer fucking underwear. _Designer fucking—_

“Speechless already?” Hanamaki asks around a purr. “I thought it’d take a little bit more than just getting me naked.”

Matsukawa won’t deny that he can’t quite seem to focus on anything other than the curves of Hanamaki’s waist. “Not naked yet,” he mutters through the daze. 

“Hm, true.” Hanamaki’s hands float into Matsukawa’s view, running along the lace that’s covering his obvious erection. “But you seem to like these. Should I keep them on when you fuck me?” 

The words are so filthy, filthier than anything else they’ve said to each other so far, but even if Matsukawa’s cheeks are starting to burn with color he can’t help how much more aroused all of this is making him feel. 

He grabs for the lube again, grateful that he still has at least _some_ control over his motor functions. The viscous liquid comes out cool and clear over his fingers even as the bottle glows pink in the darkness of his bedroom, bright enough to rival Hanamaki’s died hair. 

“You’re still dressed.” Hanamaki thumbs at the open collar of his shirt. “How’s that fair?”

“You want to talk about fairness?” Matsukawa murmurs, kicking his hips up just enough that he can lean more comfortably against the pillows. The movement makes Hanamaki’s eyes close, scrunched enough that Matsukawa can tell he’s holding back some sort of sound of pleasure or maybe annoyance. 

Hanamaki doesn’t answer the question which is okay because Matsukawa’s ready to move on to more important things anyways, like pulling down that obnoxiously expensive waistband and tucking it under the swell of Hanamaki’s bare cheeks. 

With Hanamaki kneeling over him, hands coming up to brace atop Matsukawa’s chest and shoulders, his fingers find easy access. The lube has warmed somewhat just from body heat, but when he goes to swipe some over Hanamaki’s entrance he still hisses and juts his hips forward. The movement pushes his cock against Matsukawa’s stomach, though it’s still trapped behind layers of constricting lace.

Matsukawa presses in with one finger to start, slow and testing the resistance. But Hanamaki seems to have other ideas in mind, sitting up high in order to force Matsukawa deeper inside. His neck arches and Matsukawa’s mouth dips forward, drawn in on an invisible current, until he’s able to drag his tongue along the sharp bones of his collar and sternum. 

“_More_,” Hanamaki asks (demands) after only a few seconds. It’s clear he’s not having any of the gentle warm-up Matsukawa had in mind, which is fine—more than fine actually. 

Matsukawa obliges, pressing a second finger alongside the first and allowing Hanamaki to slide down over the digits and adjust at his own preferred speed. Matsukawa can’t quite keep himself from grinding his cock against the backside of Hanamaki’s thigh, the friction not half as satisfying as he wants it to be. 

Hanamaki’s lips puff out in a pant as he grinds down on Matsukawa’s fingers, entirely shameless in his display. “You’ve got—nice hands,” he says and for some reason Matsukawa finds himself grinning. 

He flattens his free palm against Hanamaki’s ass, squeezing the flesh there before pulling back and landing with a sudden smack that almost seems to echo through the nighttime quiet. 

“Fuck—yeah. _Really_ nice,” Hanamaki breathes, a laugh hiccuping out of his throat but before he can quite recover, Matsukawa takes things one step further and curls his fingers where they’re still knuckle deep.

Hanamaki moans, finally letting the sound loose from his throat as he bends forward towards Matsukawa’s watchful face. In turn, Matsukawa presses a kiss into Hanamaki’s parted lips, maybe a bit sweeter than necessary. They’re still slick with gloss or maybe pre-cum, he’s not entirely sure at this point. 

Matsukawa circles a third finger at his rim, gathering up a few excess drips of lube as he goes. Hanamaki arches his back, giving just a little more access. The black panties dig into the meat his thighs where they’re still straddled over Matsukawa’s hips, the lace pulled taught to its limit. 

“Thought you weren’t gonna be so—_ah_, so nice?” Hanamaki slurs out, tone equal parts blissed and playful. 

Matsukawa has the urge to spank him again and, after a moment of steady contemplation, does just that. 

The slap is resounding, decidedly harder than the first, but it forces such a powerful shudder out of Hanamaki that he nearly loses his position. He catches himself, groaning as he ruts his cock up against Matsukawa’s stomach again, consequently pushing himself back deeper on the fingers inside him.

The room is starting to grow warmer with their bodies pressed so close. Matsukawa can feel the itch of sweat gathering along his nape and every time Hanamaki pants out, he seems to suck up all of Matsukawa’s breathing air.

He makes sure to finish the task at hand, scissoring his fingers and twisting enough that Hanamaki hopefully won’t feel anything more than a slight ache when Matsukawa presses in with something bigger. 

Matsukawa gives Hanamaki one more swat against the outside of his thigh, this one more of a taunt than anything, and pulls his fingers loose to search for the condom lost in the sheets next to them. 

“Still wanna do it like this?” Matsukawa wonders, careful in making sure his voice comes out as steady as he can manage. There’s slick lube dripping down his palm, his wrist. 

Hanamaki doesn’t answer, maybe because he hasn’t heard or else he’s just preoccupied with something else. He shuffles off of Matsukawa’s legs, tumbling over onto the mattress with a grin so lecherous Matsukawa has to look twice. 

“Pants off,” he says, a mock of Matsukawa’s earlier order and before Matsukawa can even think to undress himself Hanamaki’s tugged his jeans and briefs down to his knees in one smooth motion. 

“Easy,” Matsukawa huffs. He swats Hanamaki’s grabby hands away in order to pull the tight fabric over his ankles and feet, throwing it over the side where he imagines it landing in a tangle of Hanamaki’s own forgotten clothing. 

Before he can manage to slip his shirt off, Hanamaki’s climbing back on top of him. His underwear’s ridden back up with all the extra movement, so he takes a moment to arrange it the way Matsukawa had before, ass pushing out in an exaggerated way where the lace digs into the slick backs of his thighs. 

He’s about to reach for his own cock, still nestled away, but Matsukawa grabs for his wrist before he can make any sort of contact. “Thought you were leaving them on for me?”

Hanamaki pouts down at him, actually _pouts_—and that coupled with the way his eye makeup has started to smudge, is way cuter than Matsukawa cares to admit. “You haven’t touched me at _all_—”

Matsukawa’s cock, hard and shining with pre-cum, rubs up between the swell of Hanamaki’s cheeks before he can get anymore of that sentence out. “Actually, I’ve touched you plenty I think,” Matsukawa murmurs, making sure to rub the head of his cock as firmly as he can without pressing in.

Hanamaki mumbles something incoherent, something argumentative no doubt, but still he meets Matsukawa’s touch with a pleased moan. “Fine,” he hisses. “Better fuck me hard enough so I can come like this then.”

An image floods Matsukawa’s mind—Hanamaki’s plump lips rounded into a gasp of pleasure, sticky cum soaking through the lace holding his cock hostage. 

Matsukawa breathes steady through the twitch of his own dick. “Whatever you want,” he agrees easily, ignoring Hanamaki’s cheeky snicker, the way his nose scrunches as he watches Matsukawa fumbling with the condom. 

Hanamaki lifts himself up, muscles growing taught as he gives Matsukawa room to roll the condom on, to gather up a bit more lube just the be safe. He absolutely aches with the need to be touched, the need to be engulfed in soft heat, but Hanamaki takes his time in lining things up.

“This okay?” he asks, almost off-handed, but when Matsukawa focuses in on his gaze he can see that Hanamaki is serious, _grounded_. 

He nods, licking a tongue out at his lip and tasting sweat and sweetness. “Yeah, m’good,” he says because it’s true. “A-are you?”

Hanamaki’s hips are rotating now, slowly slinking forwards and backwards until he grasps firmly around the base of Matsukawa’s cock. The only answer he gives is a little quirk of his head, up and down, before he starts to sink low, opening up without much resistance at all.

It’s a sensation Matsukawa hasn’t ever quite gotten used to, that feeling of intense tightness, the warmth of another body wrapped around him. Hanamaki rocks back, keeping his spine straight, and lets gravity do most of the work for them. 

When he’s finally bottomed out, mouth open and plucking little shallow breaths out into the air between them, Matsukawa finally feels settled enough to smooth his hands up over those milky thighs, feeling the smooth skin melting beneath his palms. 

It only takes a moment for Hanamaki’s hips to start circling and Matsukawa studies him through a fog of his own arousal, watching the emotions playing across Hanamaki’s features as he works himself on the cock deep inside. 

The faster the movements become, the harder Matsukawa finds it to stay still, to let Hanamaki have his control. His thumbs dig in near Hanamaki’s hipbones, dimpling against the flesh and holding tighter with each passing second. 

Air punches out of his chest when Hanamaki decides to rock further up, _slam down_, and the wet sound of skin on skin pounds in Matsukawa’s ears. The room is dark, neither having bothered to turn on any lights, but slivers of blue moonlight creep out across the floor, over the bed and turn Hanamaki’s skin violet-white.

“Pretty,” Matsukawa says into the darkness, the word unbidden and slipping from his tongue; oil off water. 

Hanamaki stutters, a shivery feeling running along where he and Matsukawa are intimately connected. “You keep—“ he tries to retort through some kind of breathy sound in his throat. “—_saying_ that.”

Matsukawa’s still leaning half against the pillows, but he lifts his shoulders as much as the position will allow. “It’s true,” he says, squeezing his palms up into the dips of Hanamaki’s waist.

In retrospect, maybe he shouldn’t have said anything at all—but it’s becoming increasingly hard for Matsukawa to have any control over his brain to mouth filter with the way Hanamaki is moving on top of him like this. He watches Hanamaki’s reaction, mostly unreadable through his exertion, but there’s something there floating beneath the surface. Uncertainty, maybe. 

“Fuck, m’gonna be sore tomorrow,” Hanamaki hisses, pressing his hands flat against Matsukawa’s chest to help leverage the way he’s still fucking down hard, beating a rhythm with his thighs, muscles starting to tremble. 

His tongue flicks out to catch a bit of wetness dripping from his lower lip and Matsukawa watches intently, watches the way Hanamaki’s throat seizes around a moan when Matsukawa angles his hips up in just the right way. “_Hh_—yeah, gonna _fuck_ me?”

Matsukawa would argue that he already _is_ fucking him, but Hanamaki seems like the type to revel in having his way, being in control. And really, so far Hanamaki _has_ been doing most of the work—it’s really only right if Matsukawa earns his fair share.

Lace sticks to Hanamaki’s cock trapped between them, so wet it’s dripping pre-cum into the dips of Matsukawa’s hard stomach. He thinks for a second about giving him some relief, but when Hanamaki ruts forward with an impatient little whine, Matsukawa wraps both hands firmly against his ass, hips tilting, and slams in deep. 

Hanamaki pants, clenching tight and curling his nails against Matsukawa’s chest. There’ll be marks in the morning for sure, no doubt matching the tenderness Matsukawa is bruising into Hanamaki’s hips, the plush of his ass where he can’t help but to tighten his grip. 

Matsukawa plants his feet on the mattress and pumps his hips as firm and fast as he can manage without sending Hanamaki toppling into the headboard. 

“H-holy _shit.” _Hanamaki squirms in Matsukawa’s grip, almost like he’s trying to get away from the intense sensation of Matsukawa’s cock slamming into him straight down to the base. But then he’s pushing backward, meeting each powerful thrust and moaning loud into Matsukawa’s mouth when he slots their lips together, crooked and messy. 

It’s wet and fast and Matsukawa’s body feels strung out, tight and shaking with both exertion and the need to hold back, to pace himself. But he’s drawing closer and closer to that dangerous edge and if the high pitch to Hanamaki’s straining voice is any indication, he’s not the only one. 

Hanamaki runs his hands over Matsukawa’s skin, both of them damp with sweat, groping and pinching and teasing as he goes. He’s rocking, practically bouncing with each of Matsukawa’s thrusts, and it seems like his fingers aren’t really focussed on anything in particular other than hanging on. He bends his head forward, nips at Matsukawa’s tongue with his teeth, all the while trying his best to keep the rhythm of their bodies together. 

It doesn’t take much longer for Matsukawa to feel himself slipping. He blinks up into Hanamaki’s face, the shadows unable to quite hide the heavy-lidded eyes watching him through a shine of pleasure. There’s dark smudges along his lower lash line, highlighter still glowing where it’s smeared over his cheekbones and the dip of his cupid’s bow. 

Matsukawa thinks, in some arousal drunk haze, that he’s never seen anyone quite like him before. 

Fucking up hard and fast, Matsukawa steadies his grip on Hanamaki’s ass. They’re both panting now, grunting out little sounds between them, unable to formulate anything even vaguely coherent. There’s a wet warmth that settles over Matsukawa’s abdomen and after a few more thrusts upward, he realizes belatedly that it’s Hanamaki’s cum caught up in that fucking designer lace. 

Hanamaki shakes, over-sensitive and pitching forward to groan against Matsukawa’s neck as he fucks him through his orgasm. He’s so tight around him, twitching and clenching even in the aftershocks and the sound of him panting, breathing so heavy in his ear like that—it’s enough for Matsukawa’s hips to jerk through his own orgasm. 

They lay like that for a little while, still buried deep together, and Hanamaki’s weight is both smothering and pleasant on top of Matsukawa. Above the window the bedroom AC unit kicks on, a thrum of vibration circling in the background of their slow comedown. 

“Hey,” Hanamaki murmurs after a while, face pressed into Matsukawa’s shoulder and lips tickling over his skin. 

Matsukawa’s not exactly sure what to say, so instead he adjusts Hanamaki’s hips enough to gently pull out. There’s a slight hiss of breath and then Hanamaki flops over to the side, bouncing a bit atop the mattress and burrowing into the mussed duvet. 

Forcing himself up, Matsukawa makes his way towards the door on shaky legs. Hanamaki watches him through slitted eyes. “M’gonna shower,” Matsukawa explains, voice much raspier than he expects it be. “You can stay over if you want.”

Hanamaki blinks, rolling onto his side to better face him. “I was right—a true gentleman,” he murmurs out, that familiar smirk tugging his kiss-swollen lips. He rolls further, nearly falling off the bed as he works his body up into a sitting position. “Mind if I join you?”

Matsukawa has to tear his gaze away from the moonlit curve of Hanamaki’s waist, the mess of black lace still clinging to his skin, no doubt gone cold and tacky and uncomfortable by now. 

He’s entranced once again, with the flash of neon lights from the club and the scent of Hanamaki’s amber perfume thick in his head.

Once again, Matsukawa finds that he’s still unable to deny him.

* * *

In the morning, like the world’s biggest cliché, Matsukawa finds himself with a dull headache at the base of his skull and his bed cold and empty.

Everything from the night before is clouded and dreamlike in his mind, almost as though it hadn’t really happened at all. Which—would be alarmingly disappointing considering the warm, sated feeling low in Matsukawa’s stomach.

When he shuffles slowly into the kitchen, fingers reaching greedily for the hot-water kettle, he finds a note tacked crude and crooked to the middle of the refrigerator door. It’s a set of hastily scrawled digits and in the lower corner, like a seal, sits a faint smudging of pink in the shape of a familiar, full-lipped kiss.  


So no, last night definitely hadn’t been a dream.

Well, then— 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there is a plot. 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/hlovelyyy)  
  



	2. matte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matsukawa _does not_ think about Hanamaki. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok things are simmering in this chapter compared to the last, but boy is that tension good. 
> 
> A small disclaimer: I know nothing about the magazine/photography/makeup industry other than what research I've done for this fic, so I'm sure things aren't perfect. I'm taking artistic liberties or whatever.
> 
> Thank you for your continued support <3

“Okay, so I know I told you to loosen up—but this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Matsukawa holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he shuffles out the front door loaded down with his work bag and an excessively large cup of coffee. “It’s not a big deal. It was a one time thing,” he mutters into the receiver, jostling his key out of the lock. “I think.”

“You think,” Oikawa says, voice entirely flat, and Matsukawa can already picture his friend’s unimpressed frown.

It’s been three days since the club incident wherein he’d taken a near stranger home with him for a night of stress-free debauchery. 

It’s been anything but stress-free since then.

Matsukawa shrugs even though Oikawa can’t see. “He left me his number,” he explains, trying to make it sound justified. 

“He did? Really?”

“What? What’s so surprising about that?”

Oikawa pauses, obviously thinking how best to answer. “It’s not anything against you, Mattsun,” he says eventually. “It’s just—Makki isn’t usually like that.”

_Like that_—which could mean a multitude of things in Oikawa’s often finicky language, but Matsukawa reads it for what it is: _Hanamaki never leaves his number with a one night stand—what makes you so special?_

“So what you’re telling me is that I shouldn’t call him and ask him out,” Matsukawa huffs, fingers grabbing around his phone as he squeezes out the building’s front doorway and into mid-morning sidewalk traffic.

“No—I mean, I don’t know,” Oikawa sputters and Matsukawa wonders vaguely if Iwaizumi is there too watching carefully as his boyfriend digs his own grave. “Makki doesn’t really _date_.”

Matsukawa mulls this information over for a second, really trying to puzzle it out. He trusts Oikawa to be straight with him, he always has ever since high school. But there’s also something sitting heavy in his stomach, has been for three entire days, and it’s got everything to do with the little sticky note sealed with a kiss burning a hole where it currently resides in Matsukawa’s front pocket. 

He squints against sunlight bouncing off the metallic sign of a third-story yakiniku restaurant, jogging a few steps in order to beat a crowd of school-age kids to the stairs leading down into the train station. “Then why’d he leave me his number?”

“I’m not saying you can’t ask, Mattsun,” Oikawa says, sounding just a little bit softer than before. “I’m just saying—don’t get your hopes up.”

Matsukawa waits for the beep of the turnstile as he swipes his pass, sucking in air behind his teeth. “Somehow I feel like this is all your fault.” 

This time Oikawa truly does sputter, letting out a string of offended noises and Matsukawa decides Iwaizumi must not be there or else he would’ve already done something to shut Oikawa up.

“Why are you blaming _me?_” Oikawa hisses once he seems to be finished with his dramatics. “You’re the one that went home with someone you met at a club.”

While that is true, Matsukawa can’t help thinking he probably wouldn’t have ended up grinding against Hanamaki’s ass on the dance floor if it weren’t for their mutual friends. 

He arrives at his platform just as the doors are closing on the current train and is forced to lean up against the plain white tile wall while he waits for the next one. “How do you know him, by the way?” 

“He was on Hajime’s university volleyball team,” Oikawa answers easily.

“So what, he was like your rival?” Matsukawa snorts, picturing Oikawa’s fierce eyes just before a jump serve. “Since dear Iwa-chan could never be.”

“No way,” Oikawa says and it’s like he’s right there instead of just in Matsukawa’s ear. “My rival will always be Ushiwaka and you _know_ it.”

Matsukawa can’t help a small smile. “Yeah, yeah. How could I forget?”

A woman dressed to the nines clicks past him on heels that make Matsukawa’s feet ache in his leather crosscourts. He sips at his coffee even though it’s still a little too hot to drink and wonders vaguely if the chelsea boots Hanamaki had been wearing a few nights ago are as comfy as they are fashionable. 

“So,” Oikawa hums on the other end, dispelling his thoughts. “What are you going to do?” 

“About Hanamaki?” Matsukawa mutters back, rolling the question around in his head. “I dunno yet.”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to call. Why else would he have left a number?”

“Maybe,” Matsukawa agrees, hesitantly. “I’ll give it a few more days. Don’t want to seem too eager.”

After all, he had had a great time—not just the mind-blowing sex, but there was just something about Hanamaki, something that pulled him in deep and didn’t seem to want to let go just yet. His mind wanders again to plush painted lips and tight black lace, to an endearing eye-smile and whip-crack banter to rival Matsukawa’s own. 

“Ahh,” Oikawa laughs, voice suddenly pitched higher and much more annoying. “Mattsun, do you have a little crush?”

An inbound train rumbles the platform beneath his feet and Matsukawa glares forward at the empty pit where the tracks lay in wait. “I’m hanging up now, idiot,” he says and forces himself not to think about Hanamaki for the rest of the day. 

* * *

By the time evening rolls around and Matsukawa has sated himself with takeaway noodles and a can of Suntory Strong Zero, he finds his mind starting to wander again.

The little note sits safely on the kitchen counter once more and taunts him all through washing dishes and taking out the trash. Once he’s finally sat down to relax in his meager living room, he can’t stop himself from grabbing his phone from where it’s sat charging on the coffee table. 

Okay. This is reasonable—no one could accuse him of being unreasonable. He’s just going to search for Hanamaki on social media, like people do in perfectly reasonable circumstances when they have this itchy, gnawing feeling about a person in the back of their mind that just won’t go away.

Perfectly reasonable. 

Matsukawa isn’t really the type of guy with a big social media presence. Sure, he’s got all the profiles and if someone he found attractive at a bar or party had asked to search him up on Facebook it wouldn’t be an issue. But he doesn’t really get into all the aesthetic stuff or post much other than, on occasion, a photograph he’s particularly proud of or type out a comment at Oikawa’s expense. He’s thought about making a profile purely for work-related stuff, but he gets a lot of exposure as it is without all of that. 

In the end, it doesn’t take him very long to find one Hanamaki Takahiro.

As he expected, Hanamaki _is_ the type for aesthetics. His Instagram is well taken care of, lots of scenic stuff and selfies and pictures taken by and of friends Matsukawa doesn’t know. There are quite a few where Hanamaki’s all done up, neon shadows and highlighters, a wide array of lip-colors and metallic palettes covering his milky skin. It’s sort of shocking, in a way, to see Hanamaki like this, to view him through filters and cropped bits of the best, most photogenic parts of his life.

The profile really doesn’t tell Matsukawa anything at all, but before he can start feeling strange about the whole possible invasion of privacy thing again, Matsukawa notices the link in Hanamaki’s minimalist description.

It’s a hyperlink and when Matsukawa presses his thumb over the little bright blue string of letters his YouTube app stumbles out of dormancy and pops open a profile for a channel that is undoubtably Hanamaki’s own. 

His handle is the same as his Insta (_makki_hiro)_ and Matsukawa can’t help finding it kind of cute. He takes his time scrolling through Hanamaki’s videos, of which there are quite a few. Matsukawa doesn’t really have a scale on things like YouTube viewership, but he thinks 50K subscribers is nothing to sniff at. 

There’s a few different playlists, one dedicated to vlogs that look pretty short and sweet, but it’s the one labeled _‘tutorials’_ that grabs Matsukawa’s attention the most. Maybe it’s because every thumbnail has Hanamaki’s pretty face in it, sometimes glowing with an alluring smile or eyes dipped low to show off an intricate layering of glittery shadow and sharp liner. Either way, they all make Matsukawa’s blood start to pump just a little bit warmer. 

He’s well past the weird guilt at looking into Hanamaki’s profile and onto clicking a video that promises a ‘_summer festival look.’_ It already has nine thousand views not including his own incoming one. 

It takes a little bit to get used to watching Hanamaki—hearing that deep voice through his phone’s small speaker and observing him in this sort of metaphysical, anonymous way. But Matsukawa does get used to it, so used to it in fact that he finds himself down a rabbit hole of makeup videos before he can find the wherewithal to stop. 

He likes the way Hanamaki sounds, almost always cheerful and in the back of his mind he knows it’s recorded, probably done-over a dozen or so times, but Matsukawa likes the tone, that spark in his eyes nonetheless. But also, he comes to realize quickly, Hanamaki is very talented. His Instagram description had vaguely said _‘makeup artist’_ but Matsukawa is slowly starting to believe he’s more than just someone dabbling in the YouTube game. 

The bit of personality Matsukawa had fallen for comes out in his videos as well—whether it be Hanamaki making a cheeky remark, blowing a glossy theatrical kiss, or calling out a rude comment or two from his last video—he proves to be able to hold his own in front of the camera. 

Matsukawa can definitely appreciate that. 

After a while, Matsukawa also starts to scroll through some of the comments just out of curiosity. There’s a lot to pick through, mostly people complimenting Hanamaki on his technique or his looks or asking his opinions on particular products. But there are a few here and there, Matsukawa notes, that are a bit less ordinary than all of that. 

'_You’re so beautiful. Please let me take you out sometime?’_ one reads on Hanamaki’s new year’s video, showing off a rose-gold glitter palette and giving well wishes for his followers. The handle seems generic, the comment too to some extent, but there’s just something about it that gives Matsukawa a weird vibe. 

Of course, he really doesn’t have any experience with this sort of thing—probably Hanamaki gets hundreds, if not thousands of comments hitting on him or asking after his contact information. He is quite attractive and engaging after all. So, probably—

Well—Matsukawa is here effectively _stalking_ his channel too, isn’t he?

Matsukawa decides to end the night there, allowing himself one more look at Hanamaki’s Instagram post where he’s wearing an all-too familiar shade of pink gloss on his full lips. 

* * *

It goes like this.

At first it’d been three days, and then five, and then an entire week had gone by and Matsukawa hadn’t gotten the nerve up to text Hanamaki. 

Now it’s a typical sleepy Monday morning and Matsukawa’s got a fashion shoot for Nylon Japan’s upcoming August issue and he’d only gotten a handful of hour’s worth of decent sleep. The reason being—something he’d rather not admit to even himself at this point.

On shoot’s like this Matsukawa generally works with a few other contracted photographers and today is no exception, the only difference being that this time he’s taking the lead on the summer spread. Which is a well-deserved opportunity, a game-changer even. But being the lead also means the duty of poking his nose into the stylist’s room goes to Matsukawa. 

Ever since he’d started in the industry, Matsukawa had always been a little bit awkward around designers and even sometimes their models of choice. They were oftentimes finicky and very particular and once, as an intern, a visiting stylist for Saint Laurent had tried rather viciously to persuade him into choosing a new line of work.

He gets it now, really. It all comes with the territory and he’s built up enough of a reputation and portfolio and thick skin to be able to handle things like rude, uppity sorts of people. But still—he always has that memory in the back of his mind, a bad taste on his tongue. 

The closest dressing room door is cracked open, inviting enough that Matsukawa feels his residual aversion settle as he leans in with a soft, cursory knock against the white veneer door. The room is bustling with activity; clothing racks hung full with all manner of fabrics and patterns in an array of bright summery colors, bare bulb lights bright and hot over wide-length mirrors, and every type of beauty product imaginable spread out on the pearl lacquer countertops. Each swivel chair is currently occupied by a model, most of whom he at least somewhat recognizes.

“Oh, Matsukawa-san,” a voice says over the din of lo-fi playing from a hot pink plug-in speaker. He turns and finds a short woman with stick-straight hair and choppy bangs smiling up at him over an armful of Givenchy trousers. 

“Miyazaki-san,” he greets, nodding his head just a bit. She’s one of Nylon’s stylists that had initially turned Matsukawa’s view for the positive—always kind and welcoming of opinions and critiques, never shying away from Matsukawa’s younger age or input. “I need to go over the shoot with you.”

“Of course, here just let me—” Miyazaki fumbles with her armload, looking around for any bit of free space. Matsukawa reaches forward to help, but suddenly there’s a pair of lean arms plucking the pile from her and moving to set it over the back of a recently freed-up chair. 

“Thank you Hanamaki-kun,” she says with a grin, fixing a bit of hair back behind her ears.

Matsukawa blinks, looks up from Miyazaki and over to the man standing next to her with an equally (he assumes) bemused look on his face. 

_Deja vu_—is that the right phrase?

“Hey—Issei, right?” Hanamaki says like they’re old university buddies or something. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Matsukawa opens his mouth to reply, but finds his voice caught very unhelpfully in the back of his throat. Hanamaki just stands there, hip jut out and leaning in the most causal way. He’s dressed in all black, as are the other stylists and makeup artists, and he’s wearing the very chelsea boots Matsukawa had been thinking of on the train platform last week. He’s bare-faced today, save for what might be a bit of peachy balm on his lips or else that’s just their natural complexion. 

He’s still absolutely _gorgeous_ and all Matsukawa’s brain can do is think about how he has sat on his living room couch the past few nights binge-watching Hanamaki’s videos and learning about contouring and which makeup brushes are the right ones for him. 

All-the-while Hanamaki’s phone number has sat growing stale and bitter atop his kitchen counter. 

“You two know each other?” Miyazaki wonders, breaking through the palpable tension that Matsukawa hopes no one else can feel.

Again Matsukawa attempts to answer, but this time as his voice falls short Hanamaki is there to fill in for him. “Ah, actually we’ve worked together before,” he explains easily enough. He looks to Matsukawa then and has the audacity to grin. “Once or twice.”

Matsukawa’s palms are sweating as he nods in agreement, movement feeling stiff and robotic. He can sense Miyazaki staring up at him, probably curious or else just concerned for his current state of being—which is apparently practically comatose. 

“Lucky me,” Hanamaki continues, pitching his voice just a bit lower. “I get to work with such a talented photographer again.”

The possible double entendre does not go unnoticed, but it does manage to snap Matsukawa out of whatever strange daze he’d fallen under. He wonders absently how Hanamaki knows he’s not just some coffee-boy, when he realizes he’s still got a bulky camera bag slung over his shoulder. 

Matsukawa wants to ask so many questions—Why are you here? Are you a new hire? On loan from a particular design house? Or just a one-time freelance sort of thing? Is that even how it works in the makeup industry?

He asks none of these and instead blurts out, “Actually, _I’m_ the lucky one.”

Matsukawa’s really not sure what that means exactly, but Hanamaki seems to take it as a compliment even if he quirks an amused brow at Matsukawa’s obvious awkwardness. 

Miyazaki glances between them a bit helplessly. “Matsukawa-san, about the shoot—?”

With as much dignity as he can muster up, Matsukawa turns towards the woman with an apologetic look. “Ah, right—sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she says and there’s definitely a little bit of laughter in her voice now. “Walk with me—we can look at the backdrops together.”

Matsukawa agrees, mind starting to click back into work mode, but before he can fully turn to follow her out the door he catches Hanamaki’s steady gaze studying him from head to toe—just like he’d done that night at the club.

“Catch you later?” Hanamaki wonders, as nonchalant as possible as he twirls a fanned highlighter brush between his long fingers. 

That deep, familiar voice hits far too deep inside Matsukawa’s core. He still feels off-balance, like if Hanamaki were to push those fingers against his chest, Matsukawa would just tip backwards into oblivion. 

“Yeah,” he answers and slips out the door before he can do anything more to embarrass himself further. 

* * *

The shoot goes well, as expected.

They’re given a variety of models to work with, both male and female, and the wardrobe this time around is full of statement pieces. It’s mostly high-end stuff but each outfit is put together in such a causal way that it makes photographing the care-free vibe easy and fun. 

Over the course of the shoot, several hours, several breaks, and several different looks, Matsukawa had monitored the progress where his laptop is hooked up on a rolling cart off to the side of their workspace. Occasionally he’d conferred with a few co-shooters and Miyazaki, but mostly he’d been able to take the lead how he saw fit.

He’d only lost concentration once over the entire process, and as much as that annoyed Matsukawa, he just couldn’t stop himself from getting distracted. A handful of stylists and detailers had swarmed to do touch-ups during the second outfit change and Hanamaki had been amongst the ranks, a black apron wrapped around his waist that was loaded down with supplies like some kind of makeup themed tool-belt. 

Matsukawa had observed, entirely entranced, the way Hanamaki worked—his rapport with the models was friendly and comfortable, the way he painted over ruby matte lips with such a steady, practiced hand showed his talent in an easy way, so similar to how he guided viewers in his tutorial videos.

Matsukawa couldn’t help staring, even when Hanamaki glanced up to catch his gaze, he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

And now, with the shooting wrapped and the raw photos saved to his hard drive for later editing, he finds himself caught staring once again.

Hanamaki is walking towards him, no longer wearing his apron, but a worn light-denim shirt tied loose around his hips instead. He’s got this look on his face, lips quirked in a roguish way that has Matsukawa’s mouth running dry and suddenly he feels like scrambling in the opposite direction. But something holds him back. That something being—

“Hey,” Hanamaki says as he comes to stop in front of Matsukawa. “Wild running into you here.”

In turn, Matsukawa makes himself appear extra busy in packing away all of his lenses, double checking each as he gently slides them into their respective cases. “Yeah,” he agrees as nonchalantly as possibly. “Oikawa never mentioned you worked for Nylon.”

It almost sounds accusatory to Matsukawa’s ears, like Hanamaki had somehow known he was a lead photographer here and had planned all this out like some sort of trap. Which is entirely ridiculous, Matsukawa knows, but he can’t help thinking how much of a crazy coincidence this all is.

“Oh, do you guys talk about me a lot then?” Hanamaki smirks, obviously not taking it as anything more than curiosity. “I’m new—it was supposed to be a temporary thing, but I guess they liked my work enough to hire me full time.”

Well, that’s one question answered. Matsukawa wonders if this means he’ll be spending a lot more time observing Hanamaki’s work ethic in person rather than sat alone in the dark with his phone’s volume turned all the way up.

“That’s—that’s great,” he says, looking up to fit Hanamaki with a grin he hopes is as genuine as he intends.

It is great, really. This is a good place to work, Matsukawa’s always enjoyed the culture and he thinks, from what little he knows of Hanamaki, that he’ll fit in just fine. The only issue being the underlying sexual tension Matsukawa can feel every time he and Hanamaki make eye contact. But that’s really more of a personal problem.

“So.” Hanamaki folds his arms over his chest and fits Matsukawa with a _look_. “You never called.”

Alright, straight to the point then—Matsukawa can’t say he blames him.

“I, uh—yeah, I’ve been busy,” he stumbles out. The zipper on his camera bag is too-loud in the sudden vacuum-silence surrounding them. “Sorry.”

Hanamaki snorts. “Don’t apologize,” he shrugs, shifting his gaze to somewhere near Matsukawa’s feet. “I’m the one that left without saying goodbye.”

He seems, and maybe Matsukawa is just projecting here—but Hanamaki seems actually a little bit awkward himself. Which might be a refreshing change of pace if it didn’t make Matsukawa feel like an absolute asshole for leaving Hanamaki hanging, like the one-night-stand he maybe actually was _not_. Matsukawa doesn’t really know. The jury seems to still be out on that.

“It’s fine,” Matsukawa answers quickly. “I didn’t think—I mean, I didn’t want to assume—”

Hanamaki glances up, straightening his shoulders and fitting Matsukawa with a familiar smirk. “You weren’t this nervous before,” he interrupts. “It’s cute.”

Matsukawa swallows down the rest of his words. Is he nervous? Yes. Does he need Hanamaki to point out the obvious? Well—

“Thanks?” he replies, hitching his voice but it comes out a bit more grumpy than he’d intended.

Hanamaki though seems still entirely unfazed by anything happening between them. Which, if nothing else, really is a feat to be admired. “Wanna grab something to eat?” he asks. “If you’re not too busy that is.” 

The offer doesn’t come straight out of the blue, but it’s pretty close. Matsukawa closes his fingers into a fist at his side, trying his best to catch the tremor there before it can start. Hanamaki does this weird thing to him—making him unusually anxious and ridiculously attracted, both emotions morphing without abandon into one thick mass of bizarre coexistence inside his chest.

“Okay.” Matsukawa nods, picking at the strap of his bag and trying not to allow his mind to start debating whether or not Hanamaki is wearing another pair of _Versace_ underwear beneath his tight black pants. “Do you have some place in mind?”

Hanamaki turns on his heel, not bothering to wait for Matsukawa as he heads for the studio’s back exit. “I do, actually,” he throws over his shoulder with a little air of mystery. 

Matsukawa watches him go for a second or two, feeling suddenly very helpless. He decides to pretend that Hanamaki _isn’t_ swaying his hips more than necessary for Matsukawa’s benefit and gathers up the rest of his equipment to follow after, pulled along on an invisible chain he imagines to be as delicate and pretty as the familiar rings adorning Hanamaki’s long fingers. 

* * *

The restaurant Hanamaki takes him to is not like anything Matsukawa would have been able to guess. It’s a little izakaya two stations away from the studio and apparently closer to Hanamaki’s neck of the woods—which actually isn’t all that surprising when they walk through the people-packed streets and down a narrow alleyway covered in an eclectic array of red and white paper lanterns lit only by golden mid-afternoon sunlight.

The restaurant is a hole-in-the-wall type of place, small with only a few seats at the counter and a couple of wooden booths along the opposite wall that’s layered in a wallpaper of old _Shonen Jump_ covers. There’s an open kitchen wafting pungent dashi broth and chili oil up into the low ceiling and the hum of a radio thrumming from somewhere in the back.

Somehow, Matsukawa thinks, a unique place like this actually does suit Hanamaki.

“It doesn’t look like much,” Hanamaki comments with a sidelong look. “But trust me when I say I would literally die for their Yaki udon.” 

Matsukawa finds that he actually does trust him quite a bit and the feeling isn’t only limited to choice in restaurant. An older man greets them from the kitchen window as they step through the narrow entry with a polite greeting back. Hanamaki leads him over to one of the wooden booths, just the right size for two. 

“Takahiro,” a gravelly voice says from behind Matsukawa’s shoulder and when he turns he finds a wrinkled face and kind, grey eyes studying him much closer than he expected. 

Hanamaki shuffles in his seat with a little bow of his head. “Hi,” he says in a softer tone that Matsukawa has yet to hear from him. “This is Matsukawa Issei.” 

“Ah, Matsukawa-kun, welcome,” she says and he can see now that she must work here because she’s wearing a time-worn apron and setting two cups down on the table between them. “You can call me Sasada.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sasada-san,” Matsukawa replies, inclining his head.

“Very polite,” Sasada nods approvingly. “What are you doing hanging around with someone like Takahiro?”

_Someone like Takahiro_—it rings barbed and strange inside Matsukawa’s head for a minute until he realizes the woman’s obvious smirk. When he looks over he can see the visible bit of red invading Hanamaki’s cheeks and things click into place a little bit better.

“Are you going to serve us or what?” Hanamaki asks, almost a sputter. “I’m a paying customer, you know.”

“Don’t I know it,” Sasada says and her voice suddenly switches from teasing to very nearly exasperated. “Your patronage alone practically pays the bills around here. Really Takahiro—isn’t it about time you learn to cook for yourself?”

Hanamaki’s eyes grow a little bit wider. “Hey, I can cook—I just _choose_ not to!”

Sasada turns back to Matsukawa with what he can only describe as an actual _twinkle_ in her eyes. “See what I mean,” she stage whispers. “Always with a fresh remark.” 

“Two bowls of Yaki udon and a tempura set please,” Hanamaki orders, pointedly ignoring the woman’s mischief and smiling too-bright as he nods encouragingly towards the kitchen.

Sasada’s grin goes genuine then and she turns with their order in mind, but not before swiping at Hanamaki with the now irrelevant menus still clutched in her hand. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to order for you, it’s just—” Hanamaki trails off like he really doesn’t know how to explain. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t want to. Either way, Matsukawa doesn’t mind at all getting to see the man even the littlest bit flustered. All things considered, it makes him feel like the playing field has been evened, if only just a little. 

“I trust your judgement,” he says and then, “Do you really come here as often as she said?”

“Uh,” Hanamaki hesitates, turning his attention to the table’s pitcher of ice-water and pouring out a drink for each of them. “She’s exaggerating—but I do come quite a bit, I guess.”

Matsukawa can picture Hanamaki sitting at the counter, alone or maybe with a few other customers, slurping noodles and slinging jabs back and forth with Sasada over her hot-oiled wok. It’s sort of a funny image, but also one that Matsukawa can’t help but find endearing. 

It all makes him stop and think about how he really doesn’t know anything about Hanamaki, nothing other than surface level stuff or what he’s conjured up inside his own head. He thinks back to his conversation with Oikawa, about how Hanamaki _‘isn’t like that’_ and _‘doesn’t date.’_ But then the question remains: why had he left Matsukawa his number? 

He watches Hanamaki wiping a bit of condensation off on his pant leg. There’s just the tiniest furrow building between his brows and Matsukawa wishes he knew just what was going on inside of his head.

“Hey—can I ask you something?”

“Hm?” Hanamaki looks up from where he had become preoccupied with the table’s knotted grain. He blinks and processes before nodding. “Okay, shoot.”

Matsukawa swallows, lets the words float gradually to the surface of his mind. “Why did you give me your phone number?”

At this, Hanamaki grins rather annoying. “Let me answer that question with another question,” he says, though his own words are anything but light. “Why didn’t you call?”

It’s a valid question, one Matsukawa feels like he too would be asking rather pointedly if the situation were reversed. He thinks it’s a little unfair that Hanamaki’s spun things like this so abruptly, but that wrinkle is back between Hanamaki’s eyes and Matsukawa can’t help thinking his answer might be more important than anything he might find out in return. 

“I was still planning to,” he affirms, entirely honest and hoping his nerves don’t start showing through again. “Do you believe me?”

Hanamaki sits for a moment without saying anything. He’s more quiet than Matsukawa is used to and that little bit of uncertain panic starts to scratch at the back of his mind. But then Hanamaki’s lips pull into a smile, something naked and sincere. It’s different than his usual looks but in this moment no amount of gloss or lipstick could make it any more attractive to Matsukawa. 

“Yeah, actually I do believe you,” Hanamaki murmurs, soft but certain. “I guess that’s why I left my number, huh?”

Their food comes out quickly after that, the tension in the air replaced by the comforting aroma of stir-fried meat and noodles and the citrus Hanamaki squirts haphazardly over a pair of tempura prawns. They eat and talk and it’s far easier than Matsukawa might have imagined earlier when he was still uncertain about what was going on between them.

It’s not a _date_—he doesn’t think so at least and he doesn’t think he’ll ask either. But it’s enough to get that knot inside his chest to loosen and whatever mercurial feelings he’d been having for Hanamaki over the past week to solidify.

Matsukawa likes him. A lot. 

He learns that Hanamaki’s also from Sendai, which is kind of amazing, and that he’s been close with Iwaizumi (and consequently Oikawa) since first year university volleyball tryouts. He’d always been into art, earning a degree in Art and Design before getting his cosmetology license once he realized doing other people’s makeup was even more rewarding than practicing on himself. 

Hanamaki doesn’t mention the YouTube channel or his 50K subscribers—but Matsukawa is okay with that for the time being. He’s not entirely sure how he’d be able to admit to having already watched nearly all of Hanamaki’s videos, even the earliest ones where he’d been just a little bit more awkward, a little bit less confident in himself. 

Sasada checks in on them once to pick-on Hanamaki again and smile warmly at Matsukawa when he complimented the food. Which had actually been, as Hanamaki had so crudely put it, probably worth dying for—Matsukawa had felt transported back to his grandmother’s kitchen after just the first bite.

By the time they finish eating, splitting the check even, the dinner crowd is just starting to roll in. 

“Popular place,” Matsukawa comments as they pass by a small congregation of people forming a queue on the sidewalk outside. 

“She does great business, especially with the salary-men around here,” Hanamaki agrees, with this pleasant bit of pride tucked into his words. “Most of the time I have to take-out if I come during a rush.”

The sun is starting to dip lower in the sky overhead and Hanamaki produces a pair of wayfarers from his bag that Matsukawa thinks make him look un-ironically cool. It’s an odd time of day, but Matsukawa feels exhausted from the shoot earlier and he can tell that Hanamaki feels the same way considering his normally talkative disposition has fizzled into nothing more than a quiet comment here or there to fill the silence. 

But it’s a silence that Matsukawa doesn’t actually mind, comfortable in the way a silence can feel with someone you’ve known for a long time. Someone you don’t mind simply sharing space or quiet or mundane tasks with. 

There is just something about him—Hanamaki. Something that, despite all of Matsukawa’s dwelling, anxious feelings before, puts him at ease now. 

Matsukawa insists on walking him home and when Hanamaki teases him about being a _gentleman_, something twists too low and familiar in Matsukawa’s stomach. He can’t help feeling attracted to Hanamaki—the way his hair glows even brighter pink in the evening light, the faint freckles that splay over his cheeks and nose, the natural softness to his lips. But it’s more than that now, more than a physical attraction, and Matsukawa feels himself getting pulled deeper with each step forward. 

Hanamaki’s building is fairly close, just several blocks on foot, and it’s near a train station that will connect right into the line Matsukawa needs to take to get back to his own place. The entry’s on a side-street, out of the line of foot traffic, and when Hanamaki stops abruptly to fish his keys from his pocket Matsukawa can’t help the little, infinitesimal bit of irrational panic that bubbles to life inside his head.

He wants to ask—to make sure things are good between them, to further his line of questioning on the phone number front, to see (if he’s lucky) if Hanamaki is free every day in the upcoming foreseeable future. 

Matsukawa adjusts his bag where it’s digging into the meat of his shoulder, trying to give himself something to do other than just reaching out to grab hold of Hanamaki’s hand and fold their fingers together in a way he imagines would fit quite nicely.

But then, apropos nothing, it’s Hanamaki that turns to Matsukawa with this look like he wants nothing more than to invite him up to his apartment even though it’s barely five o’clock on a Monday. 

He seems to find some sort of internal compromise, because suddenly Hanamaki’s pulling off his sunglasses and stepping forward into Matsukawa’s space. He hesitates only for a second before wrapping a hand around the back of Matsukawa’s neck and pulling him in. 

The kiss is different than the ones they’d pressed against each other that night with the lights off and their inhibitions low. It’s slower and gentle, almost chaste save for the way Hanamaki brushes his tongue teasingly along the line of Matsukawa’s lower lip.

There’s the sound of feet ambling over the sidewalk, impatient cars stuck at busy intersections, a door slamming closed down the alleyway. But Matsukawa finds himself trapped somewhere deep, where the sounds of the city are muffled by the too-fast beat of Hanamaki’s heart pressed against his own, their breathing low and heavy against slick, plush lips. 

_Makki doesn’t really date._

Matsukawa is going to go ahead and say that he _doesn’t really_ believe that. 

When they pull apart, much too soon for Matsukawa’s liking, he finds Hanamaki staring at him with this unreadable look. But his kiss-swollen mouth is pulled into a soft smile, so Matsukawa takes it as a sign. 

“So,” he murmurs, voice much more affected than he expects. “Can I see you again?”

When Hanamaki’s head tilts to the side, a bit of golden light catches on the arch of his cheekbone and Matsukawa thinks about dropping everything then and there to wrestle his camera out of his bag. 

Hanamaki’s lips pull just the tiniest bit wider, like maybe he can read his mind or something. “You’ve got my number,” he says. 

At this point, it’s the only answer Matsukawa would expect. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/hlovelyyy)   
  



	3. satin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matsukawa tries to determine the line between casual and something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI updates are about to get fewer and farther between, but I promise I won't leave this baby abandoned!

They start up a casual thing.

Casual, like most things tend to start out as—except for the fact that nearly every time they see each other outside of work they end up in some compromising position which inevitably leaves Matsukawa sore but ridiculously sated the following morning. 

It’s great. Really he can’t complain, certainly _won’t_ complain because he’s not felt this good in a long, long while. Hanamaki is fun to be around, they’ve got great chemistry and the banter is unbelievable. Almost as unbelievable as the sex. But that’s—really not the point.

The point is—

“Hey, you—ah, free again tomorrow night?” Hanamaki had asked last week, as though he _weren’t_ currently getting fucked up against the wall in Matsukawa’s bedroom.

Matsukawa had tightened his grip around those familiar thighs and quirked a damp brow. “Hm, did you—h-have something in mind?”

“There’s this new—crepe place I wanna try,” Hanamaki had panted out, cock bobbing between them with every thrust. “Plus it’s Saturday and I’m—ngh, _fuck_—I-I think I’m gonna be bored.”

“Bored,” Matsukawa had repeated, just to be sure he’d heard correctly.

“Yeah.” Hanamaki had rolled his hips then, clenching tight and sending them both nearly to another plane of existence. “_Really_ bored. Keep me—ah, keep me company, yeah?” 

Matsukawa has gotten _very_ good at keeping Hanamaki company lately. 

The crepes had been good too.

Still—they’ve never really talked about what to call it. Whatever it is that’s going on between them.

Not that Matsukawa has specifically asked or specifically cares, but he feels as though somewhere someday he’s going to have to draw a line and call things what they are. What he _thinks_ they are—in the traditional sense wherein two people spending time together, paying for each other’s meals on rotation and fucking on the living room couch would be considered, in some realms, _dating_. 

It’s Tuesday and he’d been sitting on said couch, alone this time, in the middle of a deep-dive through the YouTube amateur beauty community (_not_ because he’d finished all of Hanamaki’s own videos) when he’d gotten the initial text message.

Nylon’s annual anniversary party had been floating around somewhere near the back of Matsukawa’s brain since the date had first been announced. But over the last month it had been so heavily buried beneath work related stressors, long nights of editing, and this whole Casual Sex Thing he’s got going on that he’d basically forgotten about it until Hanamaki had brought it back up.

One of the things Matsukawa likes about Hanamaki is his relaxed, cool sort of personality. Not much seems to faze him, save for when they visit Sasada-san for a late-night bite, but overall he’s a pretty chill guy. 

One of the things Matsukawa’s dislikes—not really about Hanamaki himself, but more-so to do with the whole aforementioned Casual Sex Thing—is that sometimes he’s absolutely impossible to read. 

‘_I’m going on a coffee run, will you help carry?’_ can either mean he’s had a late night with little to no sleep _or_ that he wants to drag Matsukawa behind that little milk-tea place down the street to make-out until neither of them can see straight.

On the other hand—

‘_Shit, I think I pulled a muscle doing squats, I need your magic fingers please’ _can either be some not-so-clever innuendo _or_ mean that he’s going to fall asleep under Matsukawa’s hands as he works the knots out of his upper thighs, leaving Matsukawa quite literally high and dry. 

By the time Matsukawa has stewed over this latest thing to add to his growing list of uncertainty, he realizes he’s been staring at his messages for nearly twenty minutes without typing any sort of reply.

_wanna go together?_

Of course. _Of course_ he wants to go together. He wants nothing more than to _go together_ to an industry party with free high-end alcohol and an obnoxious DJ and spend time with someone he’s attracted to in so many more ways than he can even begin to count. 

The problem: what the fuck does ‘_together’_ even mean at this point?

Matsukawa decides to settle on something safe, something sarcastic and witty that Hanamaki will appreciate, but in turn won’t also totally negate the idea that together might really mean, well—

_Together_. 

So—they go together. 

Each year Nylon Japan celebrates its anniversary in late April offering up an exorbitant  party that usually sells out faster than Matsukawa would ever be able to get a ticket to if he weren’t automatically slated onto the VIP list. It’s always a good time, the venue loud and filled with music and famous artists and overflowing amounts of alcohol and money. 

In the past he’d been corralled to shoot it, usually partnered with a couple of other young photographers so they could somewhat enjoy the party in turns. But this year Matsukawa’s worked himself high enough up the food chain that he’d been invited only to attend, no work involved, so maybe he’ll be able to actually enjoy things a little bit more than usual.

Oh, and having Hanamaki hanging off his shoulder isn’t so bad either. 

“Holy shit,” Hanamaki breathes in his ear, lips warm against the shell. Matsukawa had almost forgotten that this was his first party hosted by Nylon’s richest overseers. 

They’ve only just entered the venue, barely made it past the security check, and already Matsukawa’s chest vibrates with the vibrant music spilling out across the club’s main floor. It reminds him, pointedly, of the last nightclub he’d visited not too long ago and he swallows down a resulting bit of arousal at the memory. 

This place is definitely insane, possibly crazier than any of the venues Matsukawa’s been to in the past. It’s literally built underground, a regular subterranean maze of lounges, bars, and dance floors hidden away beneath the streets of Shibuya. 

Okay, so. He can _understand_ Hanamaki’s unabashed shock and awe.

Fingers pinch into his side, sharp even over the dark fabric of his dress shirt. Matsukawa flinches away, turning to frown at the culprit still clinging close. “_Easy_,” he chastises. 

Hanamaki makes a shrugging motion, eyes lost in the strobes and neon lights that bounce around the room off of cramped, swaying bodies and bars glittering with expensive bottles of every shape, size, and color. 

“Okay—you’re not dreaming either, huh?” Hanamaki mutters and it’s cheeky but also rather distracted.

Matsukawa huffs, his lungs suddenly starting to feel a bit suffocated, but he can’t bring himself to push Hanamaki away. “You’re acting like a kid in a candy store for the first time.”

“Might as well be,” Hanamaki says. “I knew it was gonna be lit, but this is ridiculous.” 

Matsukawa cracks a smile at Hanamaki’s choice of words and wide eyes. He looks really good underneath the club's dark mood lighting, but he’d looked even better in the brighter light outside—that perfect mix of flashing electronic signboards and filtered moonlight.

So far Matsukawa has only seen him wearing makeup in person a handful of times. It’s usually when they go to a late-night bar or some place like that and his looks are always varied. One such night it was a metallic smokey eye and another time glittery highlighter and turquoise liner. Once it had been a pretty red lip stain and nothing else and Matsukawa had thought about it for days afterwards. 

But this time—

Hues of pink and bronze highlight his features, more tasteful and subdued than some of the other palettes Matsukawa has spotted so far as they meander their way to the nearest bartender. His lashes are lacquered with something shiny and dark, making each individual lash seem impossibly longer than they are. His lips are painted (and Matsukawa’s own might be too by now) with something subtle, a blush color that only enhances Hanamaki’s natural appeal. 

It might be Matsukawa’s favorite look so far. 

They sidle up to a bar of Hanamaki’s choosing, one shoved a little farther back from the dance-floor, closer to the stairs that lead down to the quieter, more intimate lounge spaces. He orders two shots of whisky and two highballs without bothering to ask Matsukawa’s preference, but Matsukawa can’t find it in himself to care because he’s too busy admiring the easy way Hanamaki arranges his body to lean against the marble bar-top while they wait. 

A few days earlier Hanamaki had indeed raided the wardrobe closet, and even if the styles are _so last season_, Matsukawa is certain he’s never worn anything so expensive. Gucci onyx shirt and fitted Prada slacks that leave little up to the imagination, but it’s nothing compared to Hanamaki’s painted on pants and sulvam blouse, neon magenta floral that glows wild under the occasional blacklight overhead. 

Matsukawa has a hard time believing this outfit is the most expensive one Hanamaki’s ever worn, not just because of his taste in undergarments, but other signs too. At first glance his style seems rather casual, but Matsukawa’s looked closer on several occasions (often when his clothing is scattered in a trail across Matsukawa’s bedroom floor) and seen the variety of designer labels stitched into the seams. It’s not hard to tell where his preferences lie, but Matsukawa often wonders just how he can afford that kind of taste. 

“_Kampai_,” Hanamaki sings, breaking through Matsukawa’s musings. He’s got his fingers tight around the rim of his full shot-glass and Matsukawa can just make out his iridescent polish beneath the erratic club lighting. 

Matsukawa is quick to respond, quick to pluck his own shot off the bar and match Hanamaki’s eager gaze. While Hanamaki downs his whisky, Matsukawa hesitates just a second or two long enough to admire the way the man’s throat works around the warm gulp of liquid. 

“Remember the last time we got drunk in the club?” Hanamaki asks, licking his lips.

The whiskey’s not half bad, but Matsukawa still has to clear his throat of the burn. He is almost certain that Hanamaki hadn’t been drunk at all that night, but he still feels tactful enough not to point that out. 

“I wasn’t that drunk,” he replies, thunking his empty shot glass down across the bar. He has to raise his voice over the music and pounding base, which probably only makes him sound more defensive than he actually is. 

“No,” Hanamaki affirms with a dangerous smirk. He leans in, but his voice is still loud enough that their conversation isn’t exactly private. “You were definitely sober enough to pound my ass into oblivion.”

Matsukawa is just glad he’d not yet taken a sip of his drink because he’s certain half of it would be spilled across his on-loan designer outfit. Sometimes he forgets just how shameless Hanamaki can be, and it’s got nothing to do with the alcohol or setting. Last weekend, he’d explained to Matsukawa quite candidly about his first time using a prostate massager while they were browsing the snack aisle in FamilyMart in broad daylight. 

Instead of making a scene, Matsukawa clears his throat and meets Hanamaki’s glowing eyes with his most level expression, “I recall you doing most of the work actually.”

“What can I say—I do like being on top,” Hanamaki says, swirling the crushed ice in his glass. “But I think I like it even more when _you_ take control.”

It’s no surprise that the admission has heat immediately starting to pool in Matsukawa’s stomach. This isn’t necessarily news to him, he’s been getting better and better at reading Hanamaki (in bed) lately, but it still sends something possessive and maybe even a little bit proud coursing through him. 

“Dirty talk at a work function?” he smirks, using humor to cover up his rapid-fire arousal. “Do I have to get HR involved?”

Hanamaki’s lips pull in this really pretty way, the bit of satin shimmer there catching the neon-blue light from behind the bar. When he leans in, Matsukawa catches a whiff of whatever cologne or perfume he’s wearing tonight, something crisp and warm and dizzying. Or maybe it’s just Hanamaki himself that’s got Matsukawa’s mind starting to spin.

“If you think this is dirty talk, you’re in for a surprise,” Hanamaki whisper-yells into Matsukawa’s ear over a particularly bone-thumping base-drop. 

Matsukawa pulls back with the excuse of sipping at his drink, the whisky highball much more diluted and refreshing than the straight shot earlier, but no less capable of getting him tipsy. He feels so suddenly hot, like he’s standing in the aftermath of a summer rainstorm, wet and humid and sticky.

“Wanna go somewhere quieter?” he asks a bit abruptly, brain only half working with his mouth at this point. 

Something obvious sparks in Hanamaki’s gaze. “Oh—you’re that worked up already?”

Matsukawa could kick himself for providing such a perfect innuendo opportunity when all he’s really aiming for is self-preservation. Not that his body wouldn’t mind taking Hanamaki up on the offer, but he’s not had quite enough to drink yet for that option to sound anything other than _too-much_ right now. He’d been joking earlier, about HR. But they technically _are_ still at a work-function. 

“No, dumbass,” Matsukawa mutters, shaking his head as neutrally as possible. “I just want to be able to talk to you without yelling over the DJ.”

“Talk?” Hanamaki snickers, but he’s replaced that little terrifying edge of seduction with one of familiar amusement. “Don’t you mean flirt?”

Matsukawa’s eyes roll, so far that he may have strained his optic nerve a little. Instead of a follow-up, he just latches onto Hanamaki’s wrist and pulls them and their half-finished drinks to the stairs that lead to the double lounges below. 

This venue is certainly unique, maze-like to a degree, and Matsukawa feels as though if he were any less sober he’d be feeling disoriented by the labyrinth of stairwells and service-bars and hallways already. They’re going down, down, down into the basement of what essentially is a basement already. A sub-basement. Like basement inception.

Matsukawa blinks through his windy thoughts, almost as windy as the place itself, and as they reach the last step he finds himself staring at a literal fork in the road—and it’s got to be some kind of fucking metaphor, Matsukawa’s certain, but he ignores the tug in his chest and studies the two signs in front of them instead. The one leading off to the left is stark white with lilac and fuchsia backlighting the name: _whiteLounge_. The one leading to the right is quite its opposite. Charcoal lettering over an even darker backdrop, barely distinguishable to the eye save for a bit of graphite sheen that highlights the letters: _blackLounge_. 

“What is this—like a heaven and hell thing?” Hanamaki wonders, taking the thoughts straight out of Matsukawa’s mind. Hanamaki turns to him with an unfairly attractive grin. “What are you feeling like more, Issei—angel or demon?”

Matsukawa has so many thoughts on such a simple, stupid, _teasing_ question. He knows the exact answer he wants to give and it’s got nothing to do with himself and everything to do with the way Hanamaki’s hip is pressed right up against Matsukawa’s own. 

_Angel or demon?_ Yeah fucking right. 

With another hopeful burst of self-preservation, Matsukawa pushes Hanamaki in the direction of the white sign. This in turn causes Hanamaki to laugh, full-bodied, and lay further into Matsukawa as an unfortunate (read: fortunate) result. 

“Ah, maybe we can check out the other one later then,” Hanamaki pouts, but there’s no real disappointment in his voice. It’s all a show and Matsukawa’s feeling more and more confident in being able to parse these sorts of personality things out. 

Just as the signage advertised, this lounge is indeed _white_. But it doesn’t necessarily feel stark or sterile like Matsukawa might’ve thought. No, it’s got a glow about it, subtle purple uplighting and white leather couches. It’s pleasant and comfortable, actually pretty warm—or else maybe that’s just Hanamaki’s body still pressed against his own. 

“Hey,” Hanamaki says, a little suddenly, and it takes Matsukawa a second to realize that he’s in fact _not_ talking to him.

The warmth leaches away immediately when Hanamaki detaches himself from Matsukawa and it’s replaced with this truly irrational feeling of loss that goes straight for Matsukawa’s heart, constricting. 

He watches as a spectator for a moment as Hanamaki walks forward, steps light and carefree across the marble flooring. He’s beelining towards a high-top table with two of its four chairs currently occupied, only turning for a second to flick his fingers in Matsukawa’s direction; an invitation to follow. 

Matsukawa feels that pull again, the little invisible chain tugging him forward at Hanamaki’s bidding. There’s already greetings going on with whoever it is that’s sat at the table, Matsukawa can’t really see considering Hanamaki’s partly blocking his view and also his ass is on full display when he leans forward across the high-top. Matsukawa is a weak man, but that isn’t really headline news at this point. 

He only ogles long enough for it to take him to walk to the table, but by the time he gets there he can feel a set of eyes watching him closely. It’s not like he hasn’t been caught before and besides, Hanamaki usually always preens when he makes a point to stare. But it is a little embarrassing being studied so thoroughly by someone who is apparently one of Hanamaki’s friends.

When Matsukawa looks up he’s met with a very sharp gaze, deep-set eyes staring at him in a fairly harsh manner, much harsher than he’d been predicting. They’re lined heavily with black—a different look than what Hanamaki usually strays towards—no cat-eyes here, just thick pencil liner and what looks like something smoky smudged over the corner of the man’s lids. 

Okay. So harsh isn’t exactly the right word. Try something more like _feral_.

On reflex, Matsukawa brings his drink up to his mouth. It’s so watered down that he can barely taste any of the whiskey at this point, but it’s still cold and it gives him something to do other than spontaneously combust beneath the man’s obvious glare. 

“Issei,” Hanamaki says, _finally_ turning to acknowledge him. “This is Kyoutani Kentarou and Yahaba Shigeru.” 

“Ah—nice to meet you.” Matsukawa tries for an easy smile, but there’s a lot of stimuli circling him right now and his brain feels a little overloaded, so he’s not really sure if he’s even smiling at all. “Matsukawa Issei.”

“I recognize you,” Yahaba points a finger in his direction. He’s wearing a set of shining, silver rings similar to Hanamaki’s own. “You’re a photographer for Nylon, right?”

Matsukawa swallows, trying desperately to place Yahaba’s pretty face in his own mind, but he’s coming up totally blank. “Yeah, I am,” he answers, if not a bit hesitantly. 

“I’ve been to a couple of shoots,” Yahaba explains. His lashes are naturally long, but there’s a subtle swipe of shimmery lilac over his lids and his lips are definitely shining with something Matsukawa’s seen in one of Hanamaki’s videos. “Plus, I read it every month. My favorite’s always the Guy’s Issue.” 

“Oh, cool,” Matsukawa nods and he probably sounds like a total dolt but his tongue just feels so _heavy_ for some reason. “Are you a new contractor like Hanamaki then?”

He’s not really sure why he asks, but his brain had been scrambling so hard to continue the conversation that the assumption had just slipped past his lips. Maybe it’s Hanamaki’s presence at his side, an inherent need to get along with people from his circle, impress him with his obviously _stellar_ social skills—

“Me?” Yahaba laughs and it’s an airy sound, but still Matsukawa’s stomach sinks. “No, I have like zero artistic eye for that—not like Kyou.” 

_Kyou_—Matsukawa’s brain whirs, eyes flicking over to meet that intense gaze again. The guy’s still glaring, but there’s definitely a smirk sitting heavily on his lips now. Oh, he is such a fucking idiot. 

Matsukawa blinks. “Shit, I didn’t mean to assume—”

“Happens all the time,” Kyoutani grunts, tap, tap, tapping his black painted nails over the table-top. He doesn’t stop glaring and Matsukawa is starting to believe that’s just his natural state of being. “M’used to it. So are you and Hanamaki a thing?”

It comes so out of left-field, _so fucking far _out of left-field, that every last bit of air in Matsukawa’s lungs dispels in one giant whoosh like he’d just taken a swinging fist to his solar plexus. His mind grinds to a halt and when he opens his mouth absolutely nothing makes it out. 

Lucky for him, Hanamaki seems to have kept at least a few more brain cells in tact. “Kyoutani, what the fuck?” he hisses. “You can’t just ask shit like that.”

Matsukawa tilts his gaze to find Hanamaki next to him, a sure-fire blush crawling up his neck and cheeks, visible even through the lounge’s purple-pink glow. Okay so, at least he’s not the only one about to overheat here. 

In turn, Kyoutani just shrugs like it’s really not that big of a deal. Which—it _shouldn’t_ be. It’s not a big deal, like he and Hanamaki haven’t ever discussed it, so it’s really not a big deal. Right? 

“Ignore him,” Yahaba says easily, like stuff like this is a common occurrence. He leans into Kyoutani’s shoulder, eyes rolling but there’s definitely affection there too. 

Matsukawa forces himself to grin, pulling into one of the available seats before his knees can fully buckle. “S’fine,” he appeases, eyes flicking to catch the tail end of a rather curious look on Hanamaki’s face, almost as though he were waiting to see if Matsukawa would have an answer of his own to the pointed question.

“Anyone need another drink?” Hanamaki asks, and by now Matsukawa feels like he knows him well enough to detect the tiny crack in his voice.

“Sure, I’ll go with you,” Yahaba agrees, already sliding off his stool with a cautionary glance towards Kyoutani. 

Matsukawa thinks, as he unapologetically watches Hanamaki walk away, that if he were any more sober he’d be feeling a whole lot more nervous to be left alone with someone like Kyoutani. Not that the man seems actually all that intimidating, but if only for the fact that he seems to be that over-protective sort of friend. 

Kyoutani turns to him almost immediately after the other two are out of earshot. “So, how’d you two meet?” he grunts, leaning against the tabletop (and definitely _not_ placing his muscled arms more prominently on display). 

Yeah, okay. So definitely protective. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, good for Hanamaki—but Matsukawa hadn’t exactly been prepared to be interrogated tonight either. Especially considering they’re not actually anything _serious_—

“Uh, mutual friends,” Matsukawa says and he’s rather proud of himself that it’s not a lie at all. Kyoutani doesn’t exactly need to know the finer details of their first encounter, but it’s undeniably true that Hanamaki wouldn’t have stumbled upon their table at the club if it weren’t for Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s presence. “You?”

“Work shit mostly,” Kyoutani answers rather blandly. “Actually though—he set me and Shigeru up.” 

Ah, things were starting to fall a bit better into place now. Matsukawa drains the rest of his drink, trying not to let his eyes wander back over to the bar but it’s proving more and more difficult, even with his current company. “Cool—that’s cool.”

“You always this awkward?” Kyoutani asks, entirely blunt once again. “Don’t really seem like Hanamaki’s type.”

The statement has something inside of Matsukawa threatening to choke, even if he’s got nothing left to swallow but maybe his apparent awkwardness. But then suddenly his tongue is operating at it’s own volition, words falling past his lips before his brain can stop them. “What’s his type then?” 

At this Kyoutani’s brow quirks. His hair is an unnatural bottle blond, dark black roots starting to show through. “Let’s just say—his past hookups haven’t exactly been the best match for him.”

The word _hookups_ plays bizarrely back in Matsukawa’s head, like a scratched record through high frequency static. “Oh, uh—” It’s really not the answer he’d been expecting and the way Kyoutani’s staring at him so expectantly, Matsukawa has absolutely no clue how to respond. 

“Look, m’not trying to be an ass,” Kyoutani says and there’s a genuine bit of light in his deep-set eyes that makes Matsukawa believe in his intentions, even if he’s still not bothering to even attempt a friendly face. “You seem like a good guy.” 

“He _is_ a good guy,” Hanamaki interrupts, suddenly standing back behind Matsukawa and nearly making him jump out of his seat.

“Seriously? Don’t harass him, Kyou,” Yahaba chastises, pretty features contorting with a faint bit of annoyance. He and Hanamaki place a set of four matching cocktails down in the center of the table, low-ball glasses filled with cracked ice and some unidentifiable pinkish looking liquid. 

“Yeah, don’t harass him,” Hanamaki chuckles through a mock-pout. He slides into the vacant seat next to Matsukawa, moving to run his fingers teasingly across the back of Matsukawa’s neck. “I like him, so don’t scare him off so quick, huh?” 

Considering his minor tipsiness from earlier had been starting to dissipate, Matsukawa feels suddenly dizzy and whiplashed by the entire conversation. And Hanamaki’s warm fingers aren’t helping in the slightest. 

_I like him_—the statement had come so easily, like it was something Hanamaki said all the time. And maybe he did—maybe he _does_.

Matsukawa doesn’t even taste to the sweet liquor as he moves to swallow down half of his new drink in one go, ignoring the way Hanamaki watches him from the corner of his vision, doused in dim shadows and neon lilac. 

Maybe they should’ve gone to that other lounge instead after all. 

* * *

It’s not as though he’s drunk.

He’s not exactly sober, but he’s also not so drunk that he’s got no control over his motor functions or anything as embarrassing as that. 

No, Matsukawa is pleasantly warm—any worries from earlier having been locked away for further dissection now that he’s got a lapful of one Hanamaki Takahiro atop the little green couch in Hanamaki’s apartment. 

They’d left the party almost abruptly, Hanamaki nuzzling into Matsukawa’s neck one minute and then promptly tugging him out the back exit the next. Matsukawa had pointedly ignored Kyoutani’s knowing smirk in favor of following Hanamaki so closely their feet had nearly tripped each other up slipping out the door. 

Now though, he’s got a bit more clarity (if it can even be called that) considering there’s no more blinding club lights, pounding bass, or watchful friends to distract Matsukawa from fully taking the situation in. 

And what a situation it is—Hanamaki grinding down atop his lap with no amount of inhibitions, his silky blouse unbuttoned and barely clinging to his shoulders. The only light in the room comes from the patio door, blinds pushed aside to let strong white beams of moonlight slice through the darkness and create geometric patterns across Hanamaki’s bare skin. 

It’s not as though he’s drunk—but the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream’s got nothing to do with the buzz coursing through Matsukawa’s entire body. 

Hanamaki leans forward to press another kiss to his mouth, licking deep across his tongue and only pulling back when the sloppy kiss proves to be too much and they both breathe heavily in the millimeters left between. Matsukawa is certain his own lips are stained blush pink at this point and he absolutely could care fuck-all about it. 

“Want you—want you to fuck me,” Hanamaki whispers against his mouth, tongue flicking out to catch on Matsukawa’s lower lip. “S’that okay?”

It’s a question that doesn’t even need to be asked, but some far removed part of Matsukawa’s brain appreciates it just the same. He nods, curls into the sensation of Hanamaki’s nails trailing over his neck, down his shoulders. He’s been devoid of his own shirt since before they’d even barely had the front door shut and locked—nothing more than a heap of Gucci in the genkan. 

“Yeah—_yes_,” he breathes out insistently. “Here or the bed?” 

Matsukawa blinks up only to find Hanamaki gazing down at him, something surprisingly soft in his smoked out eyes. But then, like a heartbeat, it passes and that fire from before blazes forth as Hanamaki grinds his ass languidly over Matsukawa’s clothed cock. “Want it right here,” he moans out, leaving no room for argument. 

Matsukawa leans forward, hiding his own groan in Hanamaki’s neck and nipping along the taught, smooth skin. Hanamaki doesn’t seem to have any qualms about making his noises heard however, puffing heavily in Matsukawa’s ear and whining out when a bruise is sucked straight into his sensitive skin, sure to leave a pretty mark.

“Condoms?” Matsukawa’s words smear against Hanamaki’s neck. “Lube?” 

Hanamaki wiggles a little, releasing his firm grip on Matsukawa and reaching back behind himself. “I—I’ve got ‘em right here.”

At first Matsukawa is confused, until Hanamaki brandishes a little packet of lube and foil square right before his eyes, clearly having pulled them straight out of his back pocket like it was nothing. “You always carry lube with you?” he asks, trying not to sound as affected as that makes him feel. 

“Never know when things are gonna get hot n’heavy, especially at the club,” Hanamaki answers with a lascivious wink, thick lashes fanned like feathers. “We never did check out that dark lounge. Who knows what was going on in there?”

Matsukawa’s mouth goes a little dry at the possible implication. “What are you—an exhibitionist?” he wonders, only half joking. 

Hanamaki frowns, pouting playfully. “Don’t kink shame me.”

“I’m—I’m not,” Matsukawa’s grip on the other’s waist goes from steady to possessive in an instant. “Really though, you would’ve—?”

Hanamaki snorts, wriggling enough to pull himself out of Matsukawa’s grip. “Now who sounds interested?” 

Matsukawa releases him reluctantly, feeling that familiar heat rushing up his neck and over his cheeks. He’s sure by now he’s red to the tips of his ears, a sure sign of weakness in the presence of someone like Hanamaki, but he can’t help but really care. 

“Just hand me the lube,” he says flatly and Hanamaki laughs. 

“I’ll make a promise to you, Issei,” Hanamaki says, handing him the packets and making quick work of his pants. “One of these days we can fuck in a public space. You’ll have to keep me real quiet though, if you don’t wanna get found out.” 

By now he’s got this crazy, lustful smile plastered on his face and he’s down to nothing but his briefs—unfortunately not lace this time around, but skin-tight Calvin Klines nonetheless. Matsukawa watches Hanamaki watching him, clearly waiting for some kind of response to his dirty words and probably (definitely) honest promise. 

Instead of saying much of anything, Matsukawa keeps his expression as neutral as he can, all things considered. “Are you done?”

“I don’t know,” Hanamaki smirks, snapping the waistband of his brief’s against the soft skin of his stomach. “I like this blush you’ve got going on. Very pretty.”

“_You’re_ pretty,” Matsukawa throws back, the statement quite unsurprising to either of them at this point. 

Hanamaki hums, regarding him with nearly the same soft look from before. “You like to say that,” he says, voice suddenly no more than a whisper. He’s stopped undressing for a moment, almost like he’s anticipating something—something Matsukawa finds impossible to riddle out. 

“Because it’s true,” he says with a nod, considering at this point he’s dug himself far enough down that there’s no way to play it off as anything other than the absolute truth. 

There’s a beat, then one more—and Hanamaki is still just watching him, but his expression has changed into something a bit more closed off, a bit more careful. Matsukawa licks his lips, tasting sweetness there that reminds him just how many cocktails they’d had between them that night. 

Maybe—_maybe_ they shouldn’t be having conversations like this with any bit of alcohol in their system. Then again—maybe they shouldn’t be doing any of this— 

“Okay, fuck,” Hanamaki blinks, almost as though he’s shaking himself awake. He tugs at his last remaining bit of clothing and gestures impatiently towards Matsukawa. “C’mon—gonna prep me or do I gotta do it myself?”

With Hanamaki’s cock hard and pink against his stomach, Matsukawa doesn’t need to be told twice. He reaches out with a steady hand and pulls Hanamaki towards him, shifting so that he can press Hanamaki’s chest over the back of the couch, helping him steady his knees over the cushions. 

“Oh, gonna take charge now, are we?” Hanamaki teases, but Matsukawa can easily detect the bit of tremor in his tone, the way he ruts forward just a bit when his erection comes into contact with the faded upholstery. 

Matsukawa doesn’t bother taking the bait, instead slapping a hand against one of Hanamaki’s cheeks, reveling in the fleshy sound and Hanamaki’s resulting gasp. He kneads the flesh, admiring the way it looks pressed so firmly between his long fingers. 

“Gonna make a mess of your couch,” Matsukawa hums, feeling a hot thrum of adrenaline and arousal push up along his spine. He tears open the packet of lube, trying his best not to spill it anywhere other than his fingers and Hanamaki’s ass. 

“Don’t fucking care,” Hanamaki grunts out, adjusting his arms and chest into a more comfortably position and in the process arching his back even further. “I asked for this, remember?” 

Matsukawa swallows, sucking in a deep breath as he watches the curve of Hanamaki’s body with reverent eyes. “Hm, yeah—I know,” he says around a smirk before slipping slick fingers up along Hanamaki’s perineum. 

Hanamaki’s entire body shivers, hips knocking forward on instinct and Matsukawa is quick to latch onto the solid bone of his hip. “Ah-ah,” he mutters out, leaning in to press a hot kiss to Hanamaki’s lower back. “Let me take care of you.”

Hanamaki lets go of a breath he’d clearly been holding in his lungs. “Y-yeah, okay.”

Matsukawa nods approvingly, pulling back to focus on pushing his middle finger up to the second knuckle in one, smooth go. “That means no touching yourself. No grinding against the pillows either.”

Instead of answering out-right, Hanamaki lets loose some sort of whine from the back of his throat, but it’s enough for Matsukawa. He starts out slow, pushing and pulling first one finger and then adding a second once Hanamaki’s muscles have relaxed just enough. He curls his fingers at just the right angle, pressing into Hanamaki’s prostate with practiced ease. 

“_Fuck_,” Hanamaki groans out, the words slurred where he’s pressed his mouth against his forearms. He attempts to turn, to look back, but that’s the moment when Matsukawa decides to add a third finger and all he can do is gasp and hold onto the back of the couch to keep from trembling. 

Matsukawa takes his time, scissoring his fingers and adding a few more drops of lube. He only brushes against Hanamaki’s prostate once every few thrusts forward, keeping the pattern random and unpredictable and sending Hanamaki into a whining fit nearly every time he pulls away from truly massaging into the needy bundle of nerves. 

“You asked for this, remember?” Matsukawa teases, reaching down with his free hand to unzip his pants and relieve the pressure on his own cock, unable to resist any longer. 

Hanamaki glares half-heartedly over his shoulder, swaying his hips as Matsukawa pulls his fingers out with a wet sound. “You got a dominant streak, Issei?”

Matsukawa swats at his thigh. “I can’t really imagine you being too submissive,” he admits. 

At this Hanamaki’s eyes narrow, purple shadows making his irises glow darker than usual. “I’m a brat,” he says, lips pulling into a slick smirk. 

Matsukawa nods, biting through a hiss as he pulls his palm over the warm flesh of his own cock. “That sounds about right.” 

Hanamaki’s head tilts where he’s got it still pillowed on his arms. “Gonna punish me?” he smirks, going so far as to waggle his brows in challenge. 

Matsukawa can’t help but snort, releasing his hardness in favor of tapping light and teasing over Hanamaki’s balls. “Not tonight. Like I said—gonna take care of you.”

“Hm, rain check then,” Hanamaki mumbles, eyes falling closed at the touch. “M’ready.” 

Running a palm up over the swell of Hanamaki’s ass, still poised and on display, Matsukawa dips a thumb into his lube-slick entrance. “Pretty,” he comments, tugging at the sensitive, pliant flesh. 

“Can’t even see my face.” Hanamaki’s voice comes muffled through the air, but Matsukawa can still sense the bit of fluster in his tone. 

“Everything about you is pretty,” he says, confident in that assessment. He takes the minor bit of distraction to tear into the condom wrapper. 

“Issei, you’re too much.”

Matsukawa hums, slowly rolling the condom on and reveling in the anticipation. “Think so?”

“Know so—oh, _holy_ _fuck—”_

Matsukawa doesn’t wait for Hanamaki to finish his thought, pushing in with only a minor amount of resistance. He’d been nearly four fingers deep a moment ago and it shows with just how readily Hanamaki accepts his cock. He presses slow but steady until he bottoms out with a soft groan, fingers twitching over Hanamaki’s skin.

They’ve never had sex like this before. Hanamaki’s a big fan of riding Matsukawa until he can’t see straight, being in control, that sort of thing. Which Matsukawa fucking loves, of course—but there’s something to be said about this, about watching his cock sink into that tight, warm heat. Watching all of Hanamaki’s muscles tremble and goosebumps crawl down the dip of his spine. 

They take a moment to acclimate, the both of them. It’s only when Hanamaki relaxes fully that Matsukawa grasps his hips, keeping him steady against the back of the couch, and pulls out nearly to the tip before slamming back in. 

He keeps his pace pretty languid and even, which is challenging considering the way Hanamaki’s hips try their best to push back, spur him into moving faster. But Matsukawa hadn’t been bluffing earlier; he plans on taking care of him and to do that he needs to remain in control. 

“Do you believe me,” Matsukawa asks, keeping his tone soft, feet planted on the floor. “When I say those things?”

Hanamaki’s arm moves, almost as though at its own volition, hand attempting to grasp at his cock where it hangs leaking onto the couch cushions. “Wh-what things?” he responds, sounding entirely dazed. 

Matsukawa doesn’t verbally reprimand, just grabs for Hanamaki’s wrist, tugging his arm to pin it in a more appropriate place at his lower back. “How pretty you are,” he answers, hips still kicking forward at his own pace.

“M’not—_Issei_,” Hanamaki gasps out a sound that has Matsukawa’s cock twitching where it’s sheathed. “Why—why the fuck are you asking?”

Matsukawa takes his time, bottoming out once again only to start grinding his hips against Hanamaki’s ass. He admires the swell of skin pressed against his hipbones, the way Hanamaki’s fingers curl in and out of a fist where it’s still being restrained. 

“I just want you to know,” Matsukawa says, going so far as to lean down over Hanamaki’s back, sweat-slick skin on skin. “You are pretty. Fucking gorgeous actually. But it’s—it’s more than that.”

Hanamaki clenches at the words. “More?” he huffs, sounding far more gone than Matsukawa had anticipated. 

“You’re—” Matsukawa himself has to swallow against a huge wave of tingling arousal, grip tightening. “You’re sexy and funny—talented too. The whole package.” 

“Whole p-package?” Hanamaki’s tongue sounds heavy, uncooperative. “What the fuck, Issei—gettin’ sappy with your dick in me?”

Matsukawa can’t help a chuckle at the attempt at humor, grinding his hips a little more ruthlessly and releasing his hold on Hanamaki’s wrist to reach for something else. He slides his palm up Hanamaki’s cock, collecting the dripping pre-cum and using it to pump him in time with his short but deep thrusts. 

“You like it,” Matsukawa whispers, words sounding like a far-away echo in his own ears. “You like me.”

He’s not sure where the hell all of this is coming from—of course some part of him knows it stems from earlier in the neon shadows of that not-so-angelic lounge. But these words are dripping off his tongue like honey, over-sweet and sticky against Hanamaki’s bare skin. 

“I—fuck, yeah I do like you,” Hanamaki grinds out while at the same time arching into Matsukawa’s touch. “Is that what this’s about?”

Matsukawa breathes in the scent of Hanamaki’s familiar perfume, presses a sloppy kiss against the nape of his neck. “I like you too, y’know?” he says, letting the confession go without much hesitation. He feels more sober now than he has all night. 

“O-okay.” Hanamaki tenses as Matsukawa’s strokes him faster and faster. “Holy shit—y-you’re gonna make me come—”

Matsukawa has to push past the thought that he too is dangling right on the precipice, remembering his promise and determined to see it through to the end. He slams his hips forward a bit more forcefully, listening intently to the gasps choking out of Hanamaki’s throat with each inward thrust. 

“Mm, that’s the idea,” he murmurs, mouth pressed to Hanamaki’s damp flesh. He twists his palm, thumbing over the slit of Hanamaki’s cock. “C’mon—be good, pretty. Go ahead.” 

Matsukawa doesn’t know if it’s his words, his cock, or his hand—but it only takes a few more seconds before Hanamaki’s moaning loud and clear, clinging to the couch cushions as he shakes with his orgasm. His warm release catches on Matsukawa’s fingers and the clenching of his inner muscles, the absolutely obscene sounds echoing out of his throat—it’s enough to push Matsukawa over the edge, riding out the high by grinding his cock as deep as he can into Hanamaki’s ass. 

“Holy fuck,” Hanamaki says, high pitched and breathless. He taps against the fingers still clutching his now spent cock and after a beat Matsukawa finally releases, still blinking away stars. 

“Said I was gonna take care of you,” Matsukawa mumbles into his shoulder blade. 

“You can take care of me,” Hanamaki pants out, grimacing as Matsukawa pulls out as gently as he can. “_Whenever_ you want.”

Matsukawa feels a little unsteady on his feet, clutching at Hanamaki’s waist for a second as he continues to get his bearings. In turn Hanamaki slumps against the couch, twisting to look up at Matsukawa as he stretches out his limbs. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Matsukawa says, reaching forward on some silly impulse to tug at Hanamaki’s sensitive cock. “Ready to go again already?”

“Shit—no, no—” Hanamaki curls up, pushing Matsukawa back, but he’s got a giddy smile on his lips, giggling as Matsukawa kneels to join him on the couch. 

“Cute,” he announces, adjusting Hanamaki’s legs to lay over his lap. 

Hanamaki fits him with a sidelong look, smile still very much present. “Thought I was pretty?”

Matsukawa reaches forward, swiping a bit of smudged mascara from beneath Hanamaki’s eye. “That too.” 

They sit like that for a moment or two just enjoying the body warmth and each other’s company. Matsukawa knows they aught to take a shower, clean up the poor forsaken couch, but he can’t really find it in himself to move from this spot just yet. 

Hanamaki rubs his fingers along Matsukawa’s arm, pressing into the muscle there. “Damn, Issei—you’re so, so—”

“What?” Matsukawa quirks a thick brow, enjoying that he for once isn’t the one stammering. “Good at fucking?”

“Well, yeah,” Hanamaki sucks his lower lip between his teeth. “But I was gonna say—you’re just, you’re _different_.” 

_ Let’s just say—his past hookups haven’t exactly been the best match for him. _

Matsukawa stares down at Hanamaki for a second, absently running a palm up over the smooth flesh of his thigh. He thinks about what Kyoutani had said, how fiercely he had watched Matsukawa at first. 

“Different, huh?” he wonders, soft and careful as he can.

Hanamaki’s definitely got a pink glow about him, so much so that Matsukawa can make it out even in nothing but moon wash glow. Oh—how the tables had turned since that first night. 

_Different_. Yeah, he can live with that. 

“Not like in a bad way,” Hanamaki says quickly, apparently taking Matsukawa’s questioning to mean something else. “It’s good. It’s—I like it.”

Matsukawa smiles, broad and pleased. “That’s good. Otherwise this might be a little awkward.”

Hanamaki chuckles, a sound deep from within his chest that Matsukawa thinks he might be a little bit gone for at this point. Before he can say anything more, Hanamaki brings a hand up, palm resting on Matsukawa’s cheek, thumb swiping against the corner of his mouth. 

“You’ve got a little—“ he explains, sounding a bit distracted as his eyes flick from his thumb to Matsukawa’s own gaze. “Ah—M.A.C. velvet teddy, my favorite shade. But I think I like it even better on you.”

He laughs again, cheeks swelling and eyes crinkling beneath half-smudged layers of bronze and pink and Matsukawa realizes that he’s not just a _little bit_ gone, he’s—

He’s— 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/hlovelyyy)   
  



	4. sheer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matsukawa considers the definition of a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, I know. I hope people are still invested in this story!
> 
> In other news: this chapter, I've come to realize, is anything if not predictable for me and my matsuhanas. Either way, I hope you can enjoy.

“I already talked to Makki about it and he’s totally on board.”

If at all possible, Oikawa’s voice comes out even more annoying through the speaker of Matsukawa’s phone, tinny over the connection of their FaceTime call. 

“Not happening,” Matsukawa says, somewhat distracted by the photos he’s scanning through on his laptop’s dim screen. “Thanks for the offer, move along please.”

“It _is_ happening,” Oikawa insists. “We all need a little break to blow off steam, relax and have some fun together.”

“See there’s your problem.” Matsukawa double clicks on a photograph halfway down the screen, bringing up an inverted image of the model’s lean legs ending in a pair of chunky, designer loafers worth more than Matsukawa’s entire being. “This won’t be fun for me.”

“Makki seems to think otherwise.” 

“It’s a little _invasive_.” 

“It’s a double date, not a _foursome_,” Iwaizumi’s voice barks out through their connection. When Matsukawa finally scrolls his eyes back over to his phone, he meets Oikawa’s smug look and then behind him, Iwaizumi’s more neutral scowl.

“Thank you, Hajime,” Oikawa simpers.

Matsukawa takes a deep breath, considering. “I might be more on board for the foursome.”

All the smugness deflates from Oikawa’s expression, replaced quickly with pinched disgust. “Mattsun, control yourself.” 

“I _am_ in control,” Matsukawa says, forcing himself to sit up just a bit straighter in his desk chair. “I don’t think you understand the very delicate nature of our current relationship. Anything at all could disrupt things, could take that control away from me and I’m definitely not letting _you_ try to help things along.”

He pictures Hanamaki’s face in his mind’s eyes, skin illuminated lilac and gold beneath the glow of neon, eyes heavy-lidded, lips covered in a sheen of gloss and something _more_—

“Mattsun,” Oikawa says, his voice dipping into something softer, almost sympathetic, before his pout abruptly comes back full force like some kind of emotional whiplash. “He was our friend _first_.”

Matsukawa’s eyes ache from the force of their roll. But he can’t help biting into the banter. “Yeah, but he likes me better now,” he answers as dry as possible. 

“That is so rude and so untrue.”

“I’m way less high maintenance than you,” Matsukawa smirks, gaze dipping with purpose towards his lap. “Plus, you know, the dick is good.”

“Please never say that ever again,” Iwaizumi bites, voice raised to carry from where Matsukawa can see he’s making himself busy in the couple’s cramped kitchen. “_Boundaries_.”

“It’s your boy’s own fault.” Matsukawa chuckles at the stiffness in Iwaizumi’s broad shoulders. “Too easy to rile up.”

“So we’re going to Marunouchi House—you know, the terrace?” Oikawa continues as though no bit of the previous conversation had even taken place. “One of the restaurants has the best cheese cake, I’m telling you _orgasmic_—Makki will be so good to go after—”

Matsukawa grimaces, pulling the phone farther away from his face instinctually. “Okay, what did we just say about boundaries?”

“_You_ started it,” Oikawa throws back with a grin, looking like the cat who ate the cream.

“You always have to have the last word, don’t you?”

“We’re meeting at seven o’clock, so don’t be late.”

Matsukawa sighs, knowing deep down he’d been resigned from the start. “If this ends poorly for me you know what I’ll have to do,” he says ominously.

“Yeah, yeah,” Oikawa mutters, the phone shaking in his unimpressed grip. “Murder me and hide the body so no one will ever find it—”

“What? No, that’s so cliché,” Matsukawa answers as steadily as he can. He makes sure he’s got Oikawa’s full attention before continuing. “I’m talking about those videos I have from third year, you know the ones that you made me swear never to show Iwaizumi?”

Oikawa’s face falls, this time a believable bit of panic mixing in the shadows of his glare. “Mattsun, you wouldn’t _dare_.”

“Just remember this conversation when you get the urge to force Hanamaki and me into some arbitrary rom-com situation and we’ll be, how did you put it? _Good to go_.”

“Marunouchi House, seven o’clock s_harp,_” Oikawa hisses before abruptly ending the call. 

Despite the growing ball of uncertainty in his gut, Matsukawa can’t help but let himself crack a smile. 

* * *

When Friday night rolls around, the only thing keeping Matsukawa going is the messageHanamaki had sent him earlier. It’d been filled with a few lines of excited emoji, a playful pledge to side _against_ Oikawa in any decision or debate, and a single dim selfie taken in the rose-gold glow of Hanamaki’s living room. 

It was pretty typical, as far as selfies go in Matsukawa’s limited knowledge, but the fact that the slightly grainy photo captured Hanamaki’s half-lidded smolder so perfectly—well, it hadn’t taken much more than knee-jerk reaction for Matsukawa to save it to his camera roll. 

It takes Matsukawa two line transfers until he makes it to Tokyo Station. It’s rush hour on a Friday evening, so the amount of times he’s jostled and crammed into the unforgiving closing doors seems to be the appropriate amount. When he steps out amidst the sea of evening travelers, he follows in step behind a pair of sharp dressed salary men who navigate the traffic with ease of practice and before Matsukawa knows it, he’s reached the gates with little to no issue. 

Marunouchi House is a conglomerate of restaurants and bars nestled along the Shin-Marunouchi Building’s seventh floor terrace. Matsukawa’s really only read about it online a couple of times before, not exactly the first on his list of choices for a night out with friends. But when some of those friends consist of Oikawa and Hanamaki, he can’t be too surprised at the trendy choice. 

As he waits fo the elevator up, he subtly checks his appearance in the reflective chrome doors, half-wondering at his own choice in jeans a bit tighter than usual and a shirt rolled to show off forearms and the dip in his collarbones where Hanamaki’s taken to leaving blooms of red and purple with his sharp mouth. 

It could definitely be construed as date attire, but also casual enough if he were only meeting Iwaizumi for a quiet, reasonable drink. 

He doesn’t really know if it _is_ a date. Doesn’t really want to ask, nor does he feel insecure enough to have to. He’s come to this juncture before with Hanamaki—sometimes not asking is answer enough.

So for now—it’s Schrodinger’s date, he supposes, before biting his own tongue at the ridiculous thought. 

They’re waiting for him, of course, Oikawa and Iwaizumi as punctual as ever and Hanamaki sat so close to Oikawa’s side that they’re practically cuddling. It’s bizarrely cute, especially when Matsukawa catches Hanamaki’s gaze across the open room, his lips still turned into Oikawa’s ear like he’s midway through a bit of particularly juicy gossip. 

Perhaps, if he’s lucky enough, juicy gossip involving Matsukawa himself. 

“Hey,” Iwaizumi greets him first, level as ever, and Matsukawa can’t help finding comfort in that, especially when his eyes land on the silky peach shirt Hanamaki’s wearing. 

It clings pleasantly to his skin, the dip in his waist. Matsukawa can see clearly that the abalone buttons are done up on the left side, so not only is it feminine, but most definitely plucked straight off a rack from one of the women’s dressing rooms at Nylon. 

Matsukawa can’t find any bit of fault with that, especially considering the way it compliments Hanamaki’s every curve and the warm bronze tone swiped over his cheekbones. 

“Hey, stranger,” Hanamaki says with a flick of his fingers, even though they’d crossed paths a dozen times this week in the studio and had drinks with Miyazaki-san and company just this past Monday. 

Somehow, Matsukawa can’t help but be reeled further in by Hanamaki’s unique charm. 

“Alright, I was promised cocktails, cheesecake, and good company,” Hanamaki announces with a flourish of fingers. “Now that Issei is here, we’ve got one of those things down.”

“Makki, so rude,” Oikawa pouts, but there’s an undercurrent there that Matsukawa picks up on when Oikawa flicks him a tight, _smug_ look.

Iwaizumi ignores the banter fluff without skipping a beat. “What about _actual_ dinner?” he grunts and that’s how they end up perched at a terrace table trading slices of cream dressed pizza and passing bowls of squid ink soba and sendai beef. 

The cocktails come afterwards, amidst a pleasant lull of casual conversation between comfortable friends. They’re still sat out on the terrace, enjoying the evening’s mildly humid cloak, the glow from Tokyo Station across the street supplemented with amber uplighting and strings of fuzzy Edison bulbs.

Matsukawa sits to Hanamaki’s left, on his right a lush climbing hydrangea reaches its tendrils out as if to rest along the smooth skin of Hanamaki’s nape where the collar of his blouse slips just enough to reveal a patch of moonglow flesh. 

They’re pressed together along the cozy wood bench, Oikawa and Iwaizumi their mirrored image save for the comfortable drape of Oikawa’s arm around Iwaizumi’s waist. Matsukawa’s fingers itch with the desire to reach, to twine, to rest—but beneath the nighttime shadows he stays rooted in place, no better than greedy green tendrils. 

“—he was _always_ that way,” Hanamaki is saying, rambling on about some university classmate that Iwaizumi had mentioned recently running into. “A real asshole—delusional too.” 

“He was a decent libero,” Iwaizumi replies with a shrug. “Says he plays on a rec team now—” 

Matsukawa plays with a ring of condensation on the tabletop, only half paying attention to the conversation until Hanamaki interrupts with a slightly hysterical raise in his voice. “There’s absolutely no correlation between being decent at volleyball and being decent in bed.”

Mind clicking back in, Matsukawa swings his gaze just in time to catch both Iwaizumi’s incredulous stare accompanied shortly by Hanamaki’s flippant smirk. 

“Who the fuck said anything about that?” Iwaizumi barks, expression narrowing. “Saito asked if I knew anyone who still played—their team’s looking for members.”

Hanamaki smushes his cheek against his palm, leaning sideways enough that Matsukawa can feel the heat radiating between the inch of space left between them. “Not interested,” he mumbles out.

“Because of him or because you don’t want to play?”

“_Him,_ obviously.”

Next to Iwaizumi, Oikawa’s gone contemplative. “The guy _was_ kind of a dick, if I recall.”

“I’m just trying to talk about volleyball,” Iwaizumi practically whines, slouching backwards with a put-out look. 

“He’s the one that got all nasty when you rejected him after a one-night-stand, isn’t he?” Oikawa nods, gaze locked with Hanamaki, but hand fumbling to give Iwaizumi a commiserating pat on the knee. 

“That’s the one.” Hanamaki’s fingers snap whip-crack in front of him, a bitter chuckle caught in his cheek. “Couldn’t get over me. But I was _way_ over him—even when I was _under_ him.”

Stupidly, Matsukawa is halfway through a sip of his lemon sour and subsequently chokes on an ill-timed swallow. 

If it’s any consolation, Hanamaki does startle just a bit at Matsukawa’s chest-cough, eyeing him almost like he’d forgotten Matsukawa was there. But no—that isn’t quite it. Hanamaki watches him closely as Matsukawa reaches for his squat cup of water, careful and wary. Embarrassed maybe, or else just uncertain.

“Sorry, Issei,” Hanamaki says and his voice has dipped low, a bit conspiratorial, like he’s sharing something just between the two of them. “I don’t mean to sound like such a slut.”

Matsukawa swallows, both his water and—

_Slut_. The word bounces around inside of Matsukawa’s foggy head, sticking somewhere at the back of his skull. It sounds wrong coming out of Hanamaki’s mouth, like it’s been spliced with something else—something normalized, something he says with the ease of an everyday phrase. A grotesque hybrid of a term Matsukawa can’t bring himself to associate with Hanamaki. 

But apparently—Hanamaki can. 

“I guess he was kind of a jerk, even before that,” Iwaizumi says, like the thought’s just occurred to him. “Cocky and gaudy—and not in the _good_ way.”

Matsukawa follows the line of Iwaizumi’s smirk, the way he directs it pointedly towards Oikawa in what may or may not be a subtle diversion.

“Hey—is that supposed to be a _compliment?_” Oikawa scoffs once the phrasing registers. He leans in, tapping a palm over Iwaizumi’s chest with false sweetness. “Work harder, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes roll, but it’s affectionate. “Your ego is full enough as it is.” 

“While that may be true, _I’m_ still hungry,” Hanamaki announces. “Who’s getting the cheesecake with me?”

And with that, the diversion succeeds.

Matsukawa should be grateful, the previous topic something sticky and potentially volatile. But he can’t help feeling whiplashed just the same. What was it they said about curiosity?

“Hajime will go with you,” Oikawa says easily, like it’s the obvious choice, and Iwaizumi is halfway to standing already before the thought occurs to Matsukawa that maybe he should be offering—

He turns to Hanamaki, hesitates on the line of his waist where that blouse is tucked artfully beneath a pretty Gucci belt, and then cranes his neck upwards. “I can get it for—“

“No, no. _Sit_,” Hanamaki instructs (_commands_) from above even though Matsukawa hasn’t even moved to stand just yet. “You insist on paying for my booze, so I insist on paying for your sugar high.”

Once again the word _date_ tumbles around behind Matsukawa’s eyes, perhaps too blinded by Hanamaki’s cheeky grin to ever see clearly again. He’s not trying to be so forward, but he can’t help it, can’t quite get it out of his reflexes to shower Hanamaki in anything and everything he wants—cocktails, cheesecake, good company. An un-rejected one-night-stand turned something—

Turned—_something_. 

Is it too soon to hope that, date or not, Hanamaki won’t mind if Matsukawa desperately wants to walk him home? 

Wow. He’s so, so very far gone. 

“_So_,” Oikawa simpers across from him, tearing through Matsukawa’s internal crisis. “How are things going?”

It’s such an Oikawa-type question to ask, so heavily loaded and undoubtably accompanied by several more rounds waiting nestled in the chamber. 

Something still lingers in the air, peachy and floral; the perfume Hanamaki daubs again his collarbones, laces into the heat of his sinewy wrists. Matsukawa breathes in deep, turning back to his remaining companion with the most blank expression he can manage with his synapses still firing. 

“Aren’t you the one who told me not to get my hopes up?” he wonders, snide but not untruthful.

“I will admit—and really Mattsun you should cherish this moment—that I _might_ have been wrong before,” Oikawa explains, nose turned up just enough to miss Matsukawa’s monumental eye roll.

“Wow, thanks _so_ much for that,” he says flatly. 

But Oikawa ignores him in favor of a simple, “Makki seems smitten.”

“Smitten,” Matsukawa parrots, the word odd and unfamiliar on his tongue. 

“He’s definitely more clingy with you than I’ve seen him with anyone else before,” Oikawa elaborates helpfully. But then his head tilts, eyes narrowing. “It’s more than just your _magnetism_, I’m sure.”

Matsukawa sighs heavily. “Do you really still wonder why Iwaizumi calls you Shittykawa?”

“_Mattsun_—he doesn’t call me that,” Oikawa snaps back. “Not anymore.”

“That’s because he’s _in_ _love._” Matsukawa does his best to draw out the syllables in the most obnoxious manner, hoping to negate any of the seriousness Oikawa is trying his best to embroider into this one-sided impromptu heart-to-heart. 

“Well you’re no better,” he huffs. “You’ve had moon eyes for Makki all night.”

“Have you seen him? Who wouldn’t?” 

“So—what are you going to do?”

“What.” Matsukawa’s tongues gets caught between his molars in his haste to be difficult, to hide behind false confusion. “What does that mean?”

“Well—you’re sleeping together, right?” Oikawa says, leaning forward to further the pretense of intimate gossip. “So, are you going to take things to the next level?” 

On the street below a cacophony of car horns sound, echoing up seven floors to dissipate into nothing more than background ambiance to the low-lit garden terrace. The further he leans towards Matsukawa, the more shrouded Oikawa’s features become; an omen perhaps, considering the man has very few bad angles, as painful as that is to admit. 

“What are we—in junior high?” Matsukawa sneers out around an unnecessary cough that only proves to plant a real tickle in his throat. “Things are good between us—as they are.”

Oikawa eyes him, far too knowing for his own good. Or Matsukawa’s own good, it seems.“Ah, so you’re afraid of rocking the boat?” he postulates airily. “Scaring the timid bunny away?”

“What are these metaphors?” Matsukawa averts his eyes to the swill of remaining alcohol and melted ice in his glass, even though he knows it’s as good as admitting defeat. “I’m saying—we’re having a good time, why does there have to be anything else?”

“Because, Mattsun—I _know_ you,” Oikawa says, voice turned to the velvet authority Matsukawa remembers vividly from his days of captaincy. It’s enough to pull Matsukawa’s gaze back up, enough to get him to really listen to the words being said. “You’re a hopeless romantic.”

Romantic? Maybe. Hopeless? _Definitely_. 

“Wow, you really do know me even better than I know myself,” Matsukawa smirks, nearly choking on the ridiculous amount of sarcasm he’s pumping out just to keep his head above the inky surface. “Please, Oikawa-san, do tell me more.”

“Well now you just sound bitter,” Oikawa huffs, cheeks rounding with a sharp grin. “Maybe _that’s_ what Makki likes about you.”

Something warm bubbles up in Matsukawa’s throat that he can’t quite seem to control, his need for self-preservation suddenly outweighing any bit of hope to stave off embarrassing, scab-picking conversations.

“Is it so hard to believe that he’d actually _like_ me?” he bites. A strange amount of irrational anger coming over him at the assumption, even though he knows this is just part of their banter, something usual and familiar that shouldn’t be making him feel quite _so_—

Oikawa’s gaze widens a fraction, mouth hanging open like a trout. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I—I know it’s not,” Matsukawa immediately backpedals, hackles lowering to nothing more than an embarrassed cower in the face of Oikawa’s genuine concern. “Sorry, I just—”

“Mattsun, he _does_ like you,” Oikawa offers, quieter than before, but no less honest. He’s been open since the beginning, trying to pry through Matsukawa’s walls, but open and truthful just the same. “Really, I can tell. Plus, you’re good for him. He needs someone like you.”

_Someone like you._ He’s heard it before, or many variations thereof. Someone like you. Someone like him. Someone—_different_. 

Matsukawa swallows once, twice. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone has insecurities,” Oikawa says, carefully, slowly, like he’s not sure he should be saying anything at all. “But for Makki—it’s a little bit more than that, I think.”

Everything halts for a moment as Matsukawa stares, eyes boring first into Oikawa’s genuine features and then slowly sifting through the mottled amber lighting until the confident strides of long, familiar legs cut through the bruise-purple shadows of evening, revealing Hanamaki and Iwaizumi’s return, dessert plates clutched in hand.

Hanamaki sits down with a victorious smile, thankfully oblivious to the words just dropped mid-air, still hovering in some sort of invisible, woven tapestry above their heads. 

Oikawa’s watching him, Matsukawa can tell, but he lets the weight of their conversation slough off, oil over water, and turns to Hanamaki with a pleased expression. “Looks too good to eat,” he announces, covering the tremor in his throat with an especially velvet tone. 

Hanamaki bumps into his shoulder with a snort, brandishing two glinting silver forks. “Me or the cake?” he simpers, eager to play into the possible innuendo. 

Matsukawa ignores Oikawa’s grin, Iwaizumi’s annoyed groan, and instead tucks into theunnecessarily large, creamy cheesecake with the sharp tines of his fork. He offers the first bite to Hanamaki’s plump lips, smiling indulgently even as his stomach stays tight and uncertain through the rest of their meal. 

When Hanamaki offers to walk _him_ home at the end of the night, Oikawa’s words echoing back through his head, Matsukawa finds that he can’t think of an excuse reasonable enough not to agree. 

* * *

They end up on Matsukawa’s couch.

It’s not the first time—they’ve been here before. But Matsukawa has only the vivd, feral memory of Hanamaki on his knees, ringed fingers gripping bruises into Matsukawa’s thighs, head bobbing pink in the dim light from the half-curtained balcony door. 

This time, Hanamaki sits on the couch next to him, not a hint of the same heat currently coursing through Matsukawa apparent on his own features—either he’s better trained himself to normal human amounts of reasonable composure, or that particular memory doesn’t haunt him like indelible ink on his frontal lobe. 

“These are really cool,” Hanamaki says, voice seeming like a muffled echo against the walls Matsukawa is attempting to keep from shattering around himself. Hanamaki had found a stack of glossy printed photographs tossed atop Matsukawa’s coffee table, rejects from a recent shoot that he’d decided would at least better fill out his current portfolio. 

Gratitude rests on Matsukawa’s tongue, just shy of the precipice. But instead he can only force a nod, a hum of acknowledgment as he watches the way Hanamaki handles the photos with the utmost care, holding them at the edges with his long fingers straight and delicate. 

“I’ve got a palette like this on my wishlist,” Hanamaki says, holding up a picture that reveals a set of models, a woman and a man, tangled together over a white backdrop. Their outfits are minimal, chunky dark leather and black turtlenecks that manage to highlight the sharp electric blue makeup shading both of their eyes. 

“You’d look good,” Matsukawa manages to reply without stumbling. Their legs are touching in a comfortable relaxed way, Hanamaki occasionally bumping Matsukawa with his bent knee. 

Hanamaki shrugs. “I dunno, it’s pretty bold.”

There’s something about his tone, something Matsukawa wants to read as simple hesitance, but he can’t seem to hear it any other way than painfully, truthfully _insecure_. 

Like Hanamaki really believes that—like he’s not _just_ speaking about the neon bright palette. 

But—Matsukawa thinks if anyone is bold enough it’s Hanamaki. 

“You’ve worn bright colors before,” Matsukawa starts, some weird need to prove Hanamaki wrong coming over him before he can logically think about what he’s saying—what he’s _admitting_. “Hot pink glitter’s not too bold?” 

It’s a smirking tease to make a point until Hanamaki turns to him with widening eyes and suddenly it’s _not_ as Matsukawa’s words finally start to catch up to his brain.

Hanamaki’s eyes tilt to the side, narrowed. “That’s a very specific example,” he says, leaving the deeper meaning open, floating obviously between them. 

Matsukawa swallows awkwardly, caught now especially with he way he’s hesitating, playing right into Hanamaki’s accurate suspicion. “I may have—uh, well your channel’s pretty popular.”

“It is,” Hanamaki nods, and he’s still eyeing Matsukawa so sharply that his mood is entirely impossible to read. “I didn’t realize that was your thing.”

_You’re my thing_, Matsukawa blurts inside his own head on impulse. He has to bite against the squirmy flesh of his tongue not to repeat it again out loud. 

Instead he mutters, “You’re not—_mad_, are you?” 

There’s an instance before Hanamaki can respond where Matsukawa’s stomach starts to sink, the realization that he may have crossed some invisible line, gotten caught up in a safety net he hadn’t even realized Hanamaki had put up around himself. It’s public domain, but how long had Matsukawa been seeing Hanamaki, kissing him, fucking him—and he’d never once mentioned watching his personal, sometimes intimate content?

But then, Hanamaki laughs—more of a wet giggle from the back of his throat and he throws his hands up, rubbing against his face and cheeks, uncaring of the makeup no doubt getting smudged in the process. 

“Mad? No, why would I be?” he hums, peeking through his fingers at Matsukawa. “Actually, uh—I guess it’s flattering.” 

His ears are rapidly turning darker and darker shades of pink.

Oh, Matsukawa gets it now. He’s not mad—he’s just _embarrassed_. 

“I, uh—I found your Instagram too,” Matsukawa admits. “Sorry, I should have said something sooner.”

“Don’t apologize, you’re good,” Hanamaki insists, though that little flustered smile doesn’t dissipate. “I guess I just never thought about it, didn’t think you were into the whole social media thing. It’s not like my channel’s a secret, it just—never came up.”

That’s true, Matsukawa can admit. They’ve talked causally—Matsukawa knows that Hanamaki has an older sister who lives in Sendai, he’d played volleyball at university, and he fawns over every single dog they come across. The peonies on his thigh represent strength and beauty, he’s not only talented with makeup but other mediums as well, born in the year of the rooster, and his absolute favorite things to eat are cream filled profiteroles. 

But, Hanamaki is right—the YouTube thing had really never had a chance to come up. 

“I have an Instagram account, but really only because Oikawa made it so I would follow him,” Matsukawa explains sheepishly. He shifts a little on the couch, not meaning to draw closer to Hanamaki, but doing so just the same.

Hanamaki doesn’t seem to mind, moving naturally to accommodate the new position, curling closer to Matsukawa’s chest and studying him curiously through thick lashes. “You don’t have a professional one? Like for your photography?” 

“Not really,” Matsukawa admits, suddenly feeling sheepish. “Sometimes people post my stuff, credited to my personal, like Nylon or some photographers I’ve worked with before. But uh—like you said, it’s not exactly my thing.”

“Well,” Hanamaki says, looking considerate. His gaze doesn’t leave Matsukawa’s, the intensity forming a warm halo to his grey irises. “I think we’re going to have to fix that.”

So caught up in deconstructing every curve of Hanamaki’s face, it takes Matsukawa an embarrassingly long moment to even realize what Hanamaki is suggesting.

He blinks, trying unsuccessfully to form a coherent answer. “What?” 

If he notices Matsukawa’s sudden in-eloquence, Hanamaki doesn’t let it show through the soft grin pulling at his lips. “You’re talented as fuck, Issei,” he explains, reaching out to tap a closed fist against Matsukawa’s chest. “You really need to promote yourself more.”

The place where Hanamaki’s knuckles linger starts to itch with the heat that’s been growing steadily warmer between them all night. Matsukawa thinks about the terrace, about way the glowing lights off Tokyo Station had played against the milk-like planes of Hanamaki’s features. The bronze painted against his cheekbones has since been smudged to nothing more than a faint metallic hint, but Matsukawa can’t help but admire the natural flush of pink rising over his skin so much more. 

“I guess, if anyone, I should be taking this advice from you,” Matsukawa says, not meaning for his tone to come out quite so velvet-low.

Hanamaki’s tongue darts out, catching his lower lip, a tick of nervousness that’s even more endearing than arousing at this point. “Sorry, m’not trying to be pushy,” comes his quick reply. “You don’t have to—”

“Would you help me?” Matsukawa cuts him off before anymore hesitance can cloud Hanamaki’s previously enthusiastic gaze. 

The bluntness seems to do the trick.

“Yeah,” Hanamaki nods, averting his eyes for only a second of bashful energy, before returning to their locked-on position. The way his grin puffs up the round of his cheeks has Matsukawa sinking just a little bit further into Hanamaki’s orbit. “Yeah, I’d love to help.”

“Then—I guess I’ll start making it more my thing,” he says, the double meaning getting helplessly lost beneath the pleasant vibration of Hanamaki’s resulting amusement. 

They spend the next hour or so wrapped up in each other against the couch cushions. While he hadn’t intended for things to happen this way, Matsukawa can’t help but continue admiring the shy blush that burns brighter and brighter over Hanamaki’s freckles with each new compliment he’s paid. 

“You’re talented as fuck too,” Matsukawa smirks, watching the glow of Hanamaki’s phone screen as it plays shades of purple, blue, and orange in rapid succession against his skin as he scrolls through his feed. 

Hanamaki looks up, somewhat distracted, and gives Matsukawa the most lopsided grin. “Thanks,” he says and it’s enough to solidify his blush into something nearly permanent. 

Somewhere along the line, Matsukawa’s fingers had taken to stroking at the silk peach material of Hanamaki’s blouse where it lays against his narrow waist. It’s so soft and satisfying, a puddle of fabric and flesh beneath his fingers, his palm. He hadn’t realized the droop in Hanamaki’s eyes until now as his head tilts just a bit farther into Matsukawa’s shoulder.

“Wanna sleep over?” Matsukawa whispers, breath warm against the shell of Hanamaki’s ear.

It’s the first time that they’ve not had a round or two of sex to put them in such a post-coital haze of sleep. 

Hanamaki tilts his eyes up, but doesn’t bother lifting his head any further. “That okay?” he mumbles, sounding far more exhausted than Matsukawa had first assumed. 

Matsukawa can’t help a soft chuckle rumbling out of his lungs. “Promise to be here when I wake up?”

Around a sleepy little smirk that tugs something dangerously deep in Matsukawa’s ribcage, Hanamaki nods his head against the open collar of Matsukawa’s shirt. “You _have_ been extra sweet to me tonight.”

“Sure that’s not just the cheesecake talking?”

“You put the cheese in cheese_cake_,” Hanamaki smirks, reaching over to slap his palm over as much of Matsukawa’s ass as he can reach. “Get it?”

“If either of us is cheesy, it’s you,” Matsukawa groans, his turn to flush now. “I think you’re like sleep drunk right now.”

“Worked all day and had to entertain you and our friends at dinner. I’m rightfully tired,” Hanamaki says with an over-exaggerated yawn. “Plus, you are very comfortable to cuddle with.”

Matsukawa can’t help but smile indulgently. “C’mon,” he mutters, tugging at Hanamaki’s wrist. “Let’s get you into an actual bed.” 

They make a pit-stop at the bathroom, Matsukawa offering a new toothbrush and Hanamaki complaining petulantly about Matsukawa’s abhorrent lack of skin-care products. It’s surprisingly domestic, watching Hanamaki use his ordinary face-wash to scrub the last bits of makeup and oil from his skin, a bit of holo-bronze clinging to the soap suds. It sets something warm purring up inside of Matsukawa, something he aught to tamp down, but can’t help but revel in instead. 

“Did you—” Hanamaki starts as they make their way into the bedroom. He’s halfway done unbuttoning his blouse when he turns to Matsukawa with worry lines on his usually smooth forehead. “Did you wanna do something tonight? Sorry, we still can—just gotta wake up a bit—”

Matsukawa stops short, feeling as though he’s just been suddenly submerged. Voices inside his head sounding suspiciously familiar start to claw away at his subconscious, reminding him unhelpfully of all the little, minute warnings he’s been given since he’d first laid eyes on Hanamaki Takahiro.

“No, no—_sleep_,” Matsukawa says, forces the words out of his mouth in a fumbling rush just to get them out and into play. He feels panicked for a brief second before he’s able to bring himself back to a more rational plane of existence. “Just because I invite you over, doesn't’ mean we always have to do—_something_.”

_Something_. It sticks awkwardly in the air between them. Like a parent afraid to speak inappropriately in front of a child, a place holder, a silly euphemism. Even though Hanamaki himself had phrased it that way, Matsukawa can’t help feeling—cowardly. 

Hanamaki squints, finishes unbuttoning his shirt so that the fabric flutters open to reveal his lean chest and stomach. “Issei—”

“You—you know that, right?” Matsukawa interrupts, probably more firmly than strictly necessary, but he feels a bit out of control. “Sex isn’t everything. I just—I like hanging out with you.”

It’s the truth, unequivocally. So why, when he says it out loud, does it sound so uncertain?

“See—extra _extra_ sweet,” Hanamaki says with a smile that quells some of Matsukawa’s fears. But still, he can tell something lingers below the surface. “Why won’t you admit that _you’re_ the cheesiest?”

“Hiro,” Matsukawa starts, hesitates only briefly around the sudden nickname. There’s so much more he could say, but instead his eyes just flit to the line of Hanamaki’s shoulders as the blouse finally slips, bare and smattered with copper. “You want a shirt to sleep in?”

“Nah, m’good,” Hanamaki shrugs, moving to unbutton his jeans like it’s nothing. “Is that okay?”

Matsukawa swallows down the tiniest itch of arousal, gaze hovering. “I’ll never say no to more skin,” he answers, making sure to inject just the right amount of lightness into his tone. 

Hanamaki shuffles out his pants, leaving him a tight pair of magenta boxer-briefs. “Okay, at least I know you’re not rejecting me because I’m not attractive anymore.”

“What?” Matsukawa’s eyes snap up from where they’d been lingering too long, ears ringing from all the whiplash. “That’s not—”

“Kidding, kidding. I’m not _that_ self-deprecating, you know,” Hanamaki assures, waving his hands in a dismissive manner as he shuffles over to the bed. “I get it, it’s not end-all-be-all sex. It’s cool, I like hanging out with you too.”

In any other circumstance, Matsukawa might listen to the thick cut of ice forming in his gut at those words. He knows—he feels—like he aught to say something more, clarify, dig deeper. But he doesn’t want to press Hanamaki into a corner that he seems to be rapidly trying to claw his way out of with as much blasé attitude as he can. 

So instead Matsukawa turns off the overhead light, effectively ending the conversation in more ways than one. If he feels a little bit less vulnerable in the new darkness, then he hopes Hanamaki does too. 

He uses the small crease of moonlight filtering in through the curtains, to navigate his way back to bed. Hanamaki is rustling in the blankets to get comfortable, rolling from his left to his right side so that he’s facing the middle of the bed now and Matsukawa makes a conscious decision to crawl in and match him.

They lay there for a few moments, breath slowly evening out and if Hanamaki’s eyes weren’t half-moon slits, Matsukawa would assume that he’d already fallen asleep. 

“Hiro,” he murmurs, barely a whisper between them.

“Hm?”

“You know I would never reject you right? You believe me?”

There’s a tense moment before Hanamaki answers that has Matsukawa wishing that he could lean in and kiss him right now, that doing so wouldn’t make things exponentially more complicated. 

“Yeah,” Hanamaki breathes, eyes dropping closed for good this time. “I believe you, Issei.”

Matsukawa wants to say more, he wants to say everything that’s been welling up inside of him, but instead he lets himself drift off, cocooned in Hanamaki’s warmth and the knowledge that this time, when he wakes up he won’t be alone. 

* * *

The next morning begins better than he could’ve dreamed.

In fact, he _had_ dreamed something similar, though nothing could surpass the reality of peeling his eyes open to be met with sleep swollen kisses being pressed warm and wet into the side of his neck.

At first, Matsukawa’s not even sure if Hanamaki himself is entirely awake. The way he moves is so slow and tender, lips dragging along Matsukawa’s tacky skin, random movements with no logical pattern.

He can’t exactly bring himself to complain. 

Matsukawa tries his best not to move, not to jostle Hanamaki from his sleepy haze, but the way his pulse picks up, his breathing turning a bit uneven—he gives himself away rather easily.

“Morning,” Hanamaki says, pressing the greeting into the dip of Matsukawa’s collar. His teeth graze along the taught flesh and bone, sending a shiver straight through Matsukawa’s body.

“Sleep well?” Matsukawa murmurs, the only words he can seem to conjure up other than something a bit more suggestive. He doesn’t want to push Hanamaki, the conversation from the night before filtering back into his mind, fresh and still a bit vulnerable. 

“Mhmm,” Hanamaki breathes hot into his pulse point before finally pulling away, much to Matsukawa’s uncontrollable disappointment. “Hey—you wanna make breakfast together?”

“Didn’t figure you for the domestic type,” Matsukawa smirks, wrapping his fingers tight in the sheets just to stave off the need to wrap them around Hanamaki and pull him back in. He plays it off as a joke to cover up the butterflies starting to swarm in his stomach.

“Bitch, I am a _fabulous_ cook,” Hanamaki defends, lower lip pouted into something even more swollen. 

“So humble.”

“I’ll prove it to you.” Hanamaki props himself up on his elbows, reaching out to shove at Matsukawa’s shoulder. “But I’ll need a sous chef—especially ‘cause I don’t know my way around your kitchen yet.”

Yet. 

_Yet, yet, yet._ It rings in Matsukawa’s ears like music, such a simple word, probably spoken with no amount of certainty or purpose. But to Matsukawa it means something so much more. It might just mean that Hanamaki isn’t going to up and fly away at a moment’s—

“Hey—I’m borrowing this,” Hanamaki’s voice interrupts Matsukawa’s current daze. His eyes follow the sound of rustling clothes only to find that Hanamaki’s slipped into Matsukawa’s abandoned button down from the night before. “How do I look?” 

He looks—like he’s trying to _kill_ Matsukawa. 

The shirt is big enough that it slips just a bit over Hanamaki’s slightly more narrow shoulders, fabric dipping open over his bare chest, the subtle hint of abs. In actuality, it should look somewhat ridiculous—some twisted form of clichéd male fantasy. 

But, Matsukawa can’t seem to take his eyes off him. 

“That bad, huh?” Hanamaki smirks, twisting his fingers into the hem as he observes Matsukawa with a knowing look. A cat that’s gotten the canary sort of look.

Oh yeah. Definitely going for murder in the first degree. 

Matsukawa’s tongue feels so heavy and dry; useless muscle taking up space in his blanked out head. “Terrible,” he manages to mutter out, not even attempting to hide the way his eyes trail up Hanamaki’s bare legs, the hint of tattoo peeking out of his briefs, all the way up to those playful, pouted lips.

Hanamaki’s not even got a hint of makeup left on him, but Matsukawa thinks he’d take this sleep-rumpled, pink-flushed look over anything else. 

“Alright c’mon, prince charming,” Hanamaki says, clearly trying not to outright laugh in Matsukawa’s slack face. He grabs Matsukawa’s wrist, tugging him towards the bedroom door. “You got any eggs?” 

* * *

Turns out, Hanamaki wasn’t exaggerating when he said he’s a fabulous cook.

The tamagoyaki looks even better than what Matsukawa’s mother used to make, fluffy and perfectly folded, definitely showing up his meager bowls of instant miso soup. He’s sure to thread compliment after compliment into their casual morning conversation, enjoying the warmth high on Hanamaki’s cheeks that’s not got anything to do with the heat of the stove. 

Matsukawa is just setting the table with bowls of white rice and pickled cucumbers from the recesses of his fridge when the buzzing sound of the doorbell startles him into nearly spilling his steaming green tea all over the floor. 

Hanamaki looks across the tiny kitchen counter, quirking an eyebrow at Matsukawa. “Expecting someone?” he wonders with the soft, teasing undercurrent that they’ve been wrapped up in all morning. 

Matsukawa just shrugs because really he’s not. Maybe it’s the kids from downstairs looking for their perpetually lost cat or his neighbor, Chiba-san, with a bit of mixed up mail. 

Unfortunately its none of those things, because when Matsukawa opens the door he’s met with an all-too familiar face, lips just a bit too plump and pink for him not to stare in sudden deja-vu. 

“Oh,” Matsukawa says eloquently as the woman on the other side of the threshold bows her head in some kind of awkward greeting.

“Pardon my intrusion so early, Issei,” Sakurai Yuna says, voice just as velvet sweet as he remembers. 

“It’s—it’s cool,” he stumbles out, brain still somewhat fogged with _Hanamaki_. 

Sakurai smiles, leaning in to brush a friendly hand against the bare skin of Matsukawa’s forearm before popping up to place a cursory kiss against the stubble of his cheek. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” she says, first meeting Matsukawa’s curious gaze before falling just over his shoulder. “But I was in the area—oh, you have company?” 

Any ambient noise from the kitchen has since stopped and when Matsukawa’s body turns on instinct to allow Sakurai into his home, he finds Hanamaki staring, eyes wide and face flushed this time not with something pleasant and pleased, but with something altogether mortified. 

“Uh, shit—sorry,” Hanamaki blurts out, tugging at the open front of Matsukawa’s shirt, even though most of his body is hidden by the kitchen counter. 

“Sorry for the intrusion,” Sakurai repeats, though this time it’s directed at Hanamaki. 

Matsukawa just stands there in his sleep-wrinkled t-shirt and boxers, brain trying desperately to catch up with reality. 

Hanamaki only responds with a very hesitant nod before darting back down the hallway towards the bedroom. Once he’s out of earshot Sakurai turns back to Matsukawa with what he can only attribute as a shit-eating grin on her too-perfect mouth.

“So,” she says, cocking her hip and drawing attention to those long, long model legs of hers. 

“Don’t say a word,” Matsukawa manages to bite out, very much aware of the heat settling near-permanently over his entire body at this point. 

“Alright, alright,” Sakurai giggles, relenting. “I was just going to drop off some of your—”

But before she can finish, there’s rushed footsteps stomping back in and suddenly there’s a very haphazardly dressed Hanamaki trying to shove his shoes on the wrong feet next to Matsukawa in the genkan. 

“What are you doing?” Matsukawa asks, probably sounding far more alarmed than strictly necessary.

“Uh, y’know—totally forgot, but I’m swamped today,” Hanamaki grits out, finally realizing his mistake and tugging on his shoes the correct way. “Things to do, places to be.” 

When he stands up, he doesn’t make eye contact with either of them and something hard and sharp hits Matsukawa straight in the gut. 

“What about breakfast?” Matsukawa asks dumbly.

“There’s enough for two,” comes Hanamaki’s response, maybe meant to be cheeky but coming out far more bitter to Matsukawa’s trained ears. 

Instinctually, Matsukawa puts a hand out, trying to drag Hanamaki back to reality, but he misses and suddenly Hanamaki’s on the other side of the door now. He still hasn’t bothered to look up. 

“Hiro—" he says, feeling frustrated and confused and it comes out as something a bit more biting than he would’ve liked. 

Matsukawa watches the way Hanamaki’s shoulders tug inward, a defensive move that looks much too practiced for Matsukawa’s liking. 

“I’ll—I’ll see you,” Hanamaki says, granting Matsukawa a second’s worth of eye contact that does nothing at all to quell the raging nausea bubbling beneath his ribcage. 

He’s seen many of Hanamaki’s filters, but this one—for Matsukawa it’s something new. 

Before he can even think of what else to say, Hanamaki’s already gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/hlovelyyy)   
  



	5. cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matsukawa tries a different approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, tags have been updated. Enjoy <3

Matsukawa’s not quite sure how he got to this point. He realizes, inherently, that desperation will do things to a person. But he never thought he’d reach this level of low. 

He hasn’t seen or spoken to Hanamaki in four days and if he knew what real, sickening withdrawal felt like—Matsukawa imagines it’s something like this.

So, against his better judgement, here he is. 

“I want there to be a firm understanding that I am only seeking your advice for Hanamaki’s own sake,” Matsukawa says, probably a bit too dramatically, but he’s learned over the years that it’s better to start strong right out of the gate with people like Oikawa Tooru.

“Is it so hard to admit that I might be able to help you, Mattsun?” Oikawa hisses, snagging a piece of seared beef off Iwaizumi’s plate with a pinched expression.

The restaurant is small and tucked away in a busy sector near Shibuya Station, not exactly where Matsukawa normally finds himself on a week night, but circumstances had been extenuating. Plus, he’d been craving yaki udon like mad, but couldn’t bring himself to visit Sasada’s izakaya. 

Matsukawa puts his chopsticks down and directs all of his attention towards Oikawa in one, flat thousand-yard stare. “Yes,” he says bluntly. 

For what it’s worth, Oikawa does seem somewhat cowed by this. He blinks rapidly, taking in Matsukawa’s expression before slumping a bit lower in his seat as he finishes chewing. “Well,” he swallows. “For Makki’s sake then."

Iwaizumi leans forward, ignoring all the preamble. “Tell us again exactly what happened?”

Matsukawa recounts the story in as vague detailing as possible, peppering over the intimate conversation and lazy morning kisses, getting to the real crux of the issue as quickly as he can.

“He just left?” Oikawa’s brow crinkles. “Did he say why?”

Matsukawa frowns, more at the reminder of his own helplessness rather than Oikawa’s confusion. “So he hasn’t told you about it then?”

“No,” Oikawa says, reaching for his water. “I haven’t talked to him since Friday, but I didn’t think anything of it. Makki’s not exactly the type to call up and chat on a regular basis—that, or I figured he was otherwise _preoccupied_.”

Even though Matsukawa knows that Oikawa is implying such a thing to get a fluster out of _him_ particularly, he can’t help but to imagine Hanamaki playing hooky with someone else, some stranger that would be more capable of leaving their relationship as something clinical and unattached. 

“Did Sakurai say anything to him?” Iwaizumi wonders, interrupting in a knowing sort of way that Matsukawa can’t help but appreciate on some cerebral level. 

“She apologized for coming over unannounced, but nothing else.” Matsukawa shrugs, that feeling of helplessness trying valiantly to creep back in. “Didn’t even get introductions in before he was literally running out the door.”

“Maybe he really did have somewhere to be,” Oikawa offers, if not a bit carefully. 

Matsukawa frowns, adopting that hard, blank look once more. “He would barely make eye contact with me,” he answers more blunt than strictly necessary.

Iwaizumi hums in thought while Oikawa leans forward to regard Matsukawa seriously. “It sounds like he got spooked,” he murmurs, maybe going for soft, but coming off bizarrely ambivalent. 

It only serves to deepen Matsukawa’s frown, his serving of noodles sadly starting to lose their appeal. “What’s with you and this timid animal analogy?”

“Hey, you asked for my help so I’m gonna give it to you,” Oikawa huffs, snapping his chopsticks. He breathes in deep like he’s preparing to share some bit of astronomically important classified information. “Hanamaki outwardly portrays himself as confident and easy for a reason. I know you think you know him, but the fact of the matter is that he hasn’t shown you everything and he probably never will.”

Matsukawa gets a few beats of silence to chew on that, to realize that he’s known this in some measure all along, but for it to be spilled out on the table in front of him under such circumstances—he thinks maybe he should have never let Hanamaki go that morning. 

“I think even we haven’t seen all of him,” Iwaizumi grunts, tucking into a bowl of rice. 

“He can get wrapped up in things, overthink situations,” Oikawa explains, shifting expertly into detective mode without a second thought. “How was Sakurai acting? Her usual self?”

Matsukawa squints. “What does that mean?”

“It means, I can see why Makki might’ve misinterpreted.”

“Misinterpreted?”

“Your—relationship to her?”

The furrow he can feel between his eyes is starting to ache beneath the surface. Matsukawa sits back in his seat, crossing his arms defensively. “We went on _two_ dates.” 

“Okay just hear me out: Sakurai is flirty and touchy-feely and gorgeous,” Oikawa says, splaying his hand out in a placating gesture. “Even I thought you two were hot and heavy when we first met her.”

Matsukawa snorts in disbelief. “Hot and heavy?”

“Y’know, sleeping together?” 

“Two dates—_two_ and we never even kissed with tongue.”

Iwaizumi’s been watching their words ping back and forth with a bit of a queasy expression. “Wow—this conversation is really weird. I feel like I’m back in high school.”

Oikawa’s eyes grow comically wide. “No passion? No fire?”

“Not even a fucking spark,” Matsukawa groans, unfurling his arms to rub at his throbbing temples. He feels so silly with the way their discussion has suddenly been diverted. “I think—Yuna doesn't exactly like what I, or any other _guy_, has to offer her.”

“Dick?” Iwaizumi snorts, unable to dodge the elbow Oikawa automatically throws into his side. 

“Okay, so _you_ might know that, Sakurai might know that,” Oikawa continues, ignoring both their smirks. “But Makki definitely doesn’t.”

Matsukawa sighs, feeling a heaviness settle onto his shoulders. This was supposed to help, not add even more uncertainty to the mix. “Please tell me how to fix this,” he says with as much sincerity as he can muster. 

Oikawa’s mouth puckers into something tart. “Oh, so _now_ you want my advice?”

“Yes!” Matsukawa groans, all out of energy to play these games for any longer. “Yes, okay? That’s why we’re having this conversation isn’t it? So that I don’t have to—so I don’t have to lose him.”

It comes out a little bit like a gasp, like a hardwired intake of air after having been submerged for a few seconds too long. That or simply his mind finally vomiting out what it’s been trying to forcibly swallow down for who knows how long at this point. 

Either way—Matsukawa feels a little shaky, like his muscles are quivering on bone and sinew. A sick, but also somehow satisfying, feeling of relief. 

“Wow,” Oikawa breathes, finally stunned into his version of speechlessness. “That’s—that’s really lovely, Mattsun.”

Matsukawa can’t help the burn of embarrassment coursing through him. He feels vulnerable, even if he knows deep down these are his friends, and Hanamaki’s too for that matter.

Either way, he can’t help but to instinctually fight. “Don’t _patronize_—”

“I’m serious,” Oikawa says, voice pitched much softer and safer than before. “Makki is really lucky to have someone like you.” 

Matsukawa’s gaze flicks between the two men across from him, both of them waiting patiently, watching him with genuine empathy and warmth. They really want to help, both for Hanamaki’s sake, but also—

“So what do I do?” Matsukawa says, feeling a little bit like conceding to the pull of a gentle tide.

He feels much better letting it guide him gently, rather than waiting for a riptide curl to drag him under. 

“You have to be upfront, I think,” Oikawa offers. “In the past, Makki’s been more of a one-night-stand, no feelings kind of person. But I think some of that stems from his fear of rejection.”

Matsukawa can’t say he’s surprised, considering all the little bumps and warning signs along the way. To say he’s been willfully neglecting them might be more accurate. 

“If he always does the rejecting, it puts him in the position of power,” Iwaizumi explains in perhaps the most tactful way Matsukawa’s ever heard from him. 

“But—he hasn’t rejected me,” Matsukawa says, feeling his tongue go a little numb at how simple the statement is. 

“Mattsun,” Oikawa all but whines, leaning his head into Iwaizumi’s shoulder like he’s just collapsed from some intense mental fatigue. “This is what I’ve been trying to tell you this whole time.”

“Okay, upfront and honest,” Matsukawa bobbles his head, probably looking ridiculous in his still wobbly resolve. “I can do that.”

“Can you?” Iwaizumi smirks. 

“Excuse me—I think I can tell the guy I like how wonderful he is.”

He’s already said it a dozen times over, hasn’t he? How hard could it be to get Hanamaki to really, truly believe him?

Oikawa quirks a brow, serious even slumped over as he is. “Even someone like Hanamaki?”

Matsukawa swallows, steadies himself by picking up his chopsticks and tucking into his lukewarm yaki udon with a new resolve coursing through him. “_Especially_ someone like Hanamaki.” 

* * *

Okay, so he may have overestimated his confidence in being upfront. Not that Matsukawa was going to admit that to Oikawa _ever_—but he’s having a tiny bit of trouble coming up with just the right way to start. 

That and the fact that Hanamaki refuses to answer his phone. That’s definitely not helping. 

He hasn’t exactly dropped off the face of the planet, that information is at least relatively easy to suss out. Even though Matsukawa hasn’t been able to _accidentally_ run into him in the dressing rooms at Nylon (he’s tried a sad amount of times this week already, much to the other artist’s exasperation), he _has_ been able to keep tabs through his online presence. 

Sometimes this makes Matsukawa feel savvy, while other times he feels—

He feels like a creep—definitely like a creep.

But that hasn’t stopped him from trying to decode underlying emotional meaning or pluck context clues from Hanamaki’s tweets and Instagram posts. 

It’s Friday evening, a week after their date/not-date, and Matsukawa is stuck staring at his phone. There’s an embarrassingly long string of unanswered texts blinking up at him. He’s tried everything, ranging from heartfelt to Naruto meme, but it seems he may have been locked out for good.

He’s _really_ hoping his last ditch plan of action isn’t going to just make things worse.

But—his friends are right: open and honest usually is the best course of action, right? 

Matsukawa opens up Instagram for perhaps the third time that evening, scanning through his feed instead of directly searching Hanamaki’s page because somehow that makes him feel a little less stalker-ish. At least a _little _less_._

He nearly scrolls right by it in his haste to act casual for no one’s benefit but his own apparently judgmental subconscious. But then his thumb twitches and his eyes lock onto the colorful photo and the somewhat vague caption below.

It’s not exactly a sign or anything, but Matsukawa’s had enough time to stew in his own brand of insecurity that he figures he can at least _pretend_ like this means something.

If Hanamaki’s working on something new, then maybe so should Matsukawa. 

* * *

The train ride to Hanamaki’s isn’t as long as Matsukawa remembers.

He’s barely got time to review exactly what it is that he’s going to say over in his head more than a couple of times and he’s starting to feel a little bit more out of his depth than before, nestled in the comfort of his own home on that familiar, memory-inducing couch.

Matsukawa finds himself at Hanamaki’s front door before he can convince himself to just go home, try calling him a few more times and then just wait him out because surely he has to show up to the studio _sometime_ when Matsukawa is working. 

But—this is better, this is new and different. Upfront and honest. No more Schrodinger’s bullshit box. 

He knocks, probably a bit too heavily, and in the second it takes for the sound to echo back to him Matsukawa starts to think maybe he should’ve brought something with him. A peace offering—flowers, a bottle of sake? But that would be cliché and Matsukawa has a hard time believing that Hanamaki would be down for that. Maybe the sake.

Too late now.

When the door opens Matsukawa’s heart jumps straight into his throat because of course he’d been expecting Hanamaki—but what he hadn’t been expecting was Hanamaki painted in a dewy coat of makeup, short hair pressed back off his forehead by an all-too familiar band of pretty teal cotton. 

“Oh, uh—hey,” Hanamaki says, appearing just as startled as Matsukawa, but definitely for entirely different reasons. 

Unfortunately, Matsukawa thinks it’s probably _too_ upfront to just tug him in for a full-lipped kiss.

“Hey,” Matsukawa parrots back once he gets his vocal chords back in some sort of functioning order. “I uh—I was just in the area—”

“Uh-huh,” Hanamaki hums, entirely not buying into Matsukawa’s schtick, but really this is all he’s got so Hanamaki’s just going to have to deal. 

Matsukawa charges forward, not allowing himself to backpedal now. “Well, either way. Can I uh—can I come in? To talk?”

“I mean—I’m kind of in the middle of filming something,” Hanamaki says, gesturing a bit awkwardly to his face. He squints a little at Matsukawa, probably trying to figure out why he’s having to explain this when it seems to be fairly obvious.

Hanamaki clearly doesn’t understand the emotional turmoil taking over most of Matsukawa’s working braincells. 

“Shit, sorry,” he says hastily. He can just make out the beginnings of a smile tugging at Hanamaki’s still bare lips though so that’s at least somewhat reassuring. “I can come back—?”

“No, you don’t have to do that.” Hanamaki seems quick to appease. He goes to rub at his nose in a nervous gesture, but stops short when he remembers the full-face of foundation and metallic contouring. “You can—you can come in. But I’m gonna have to finish if that’s cool—I’m halfway through and I’d really prefer not to start over. This look’s kind of a bitch.”

“Oh yeah, of course. You can do whatever you need to do,” Matsukawa nods as though his neck’s no more than a cheap metal spring. He should probably feel silly at being so tongue-tied, but the flush he can see creeping up Hanamaki’s bare neck feels like some kind of solidarity. “I can wait. I can—sit quietly.”

The air between them is so awkward and not even for the reasons that it probably should be. Any bit of uncertainty or annoyance that Matsukawa had felt the last few days over Hanamaki’s quick and unresolved getaway on Saturday morning has since dissolved away under waves of something a bit more tangible. 

So he may have a bit of trouble admitting his feelings to Hanamaki, but only because of how strongly they seem to be radiating up through his chest and throat and tightly clenched teeth. Suddenly, Oikawa’s animal metaphors might be making a bit more sense. 

“You don’t have to act like you’re in time-out,” Hanamaki says, smiling through a laugh. The sound is so pleasant in Matsukawa’s ears that he can practically taste the sweetness on his tongue. “I edit the videos, you know. Not every take has to be perfect the first time.”

There may be a little drag in there—certainly Matsukawa knows the videos are edited, he’s watched enough of them to even be able to pick apart the patterns in Hanamaki’s on-screen speaking voice and the way in which he prefers to cut scenes together. 

But—watching it in person, in real time would be so entirely different. For the both of them.

Matsukawa hesitates with the invitation, but only for a second. “So you don’t mind if I watch?”

Hanamaki’s eyes dip, suddenly finding the threshold between them very distracting. “You were going to watch the finished product anyways, right?”

Matsukawa observes the way his still naturally copper lashes dip over blushed out cheeks, wondering exactly where the artificial pink begins and ends. 

“Uh, right,” Matsukawa admits, sheepish. “But this is a little different. More—_personal_.”

It takes a moment for Hanamaki to meet his gaze again, but when he does Matsukawa can see just a hint of something different in his eyes. Something a bit clearer, maybe even excited. 

_Flattered_, Matsukawa decides in the end. 

“Yeah,” Hanamaki agrees. “You can stay, Issei. Really, I don’t mind if you watch.”

“Okay. Okay, cool,” Matsukawa says, his own voice a lot softer than he’d been anticipating.

“Then we can talk,” Hanamaki explains, turning in the doorway to allow Matsukawa inside. “But you do have to stay mostly quiet. I’m not quite ready to introduce you to my viewers just yet.”

The way Hanamaki observes him, with that little half-smile, that glint in his eye—Matsukawa’s chest tightens like it’s filling with helium, like it’ll either burst or start floating up, up, _up_ and never fall again. 

_Just yet_. Matsukawa doesn’t mind the sound of that.

Suddenly, the thought of being honest with Hanamaki seems a little less daunting than before.

Maybe Hanamaki really has been sticking with him for a reason. 

It takes a minute or two for them to get situated—Matsukawa sinking into Hanamaki’s little green couch and the other perched back at his work table looking barely large enough to hold his magnifying mirror, camera tripod, and the array of little pots and tubes and brushes laid out in a somewhat organized manner. 

It should maybe be more awkward than this, especially considering their obvious floundering in the doorway just now, but somehow things feel more natural than Matsukawa had expected them to. He can tell Hanamaki’s having to work himself back into whatever groove he’d had going before Matsukawa had interrupted—and he feels a little guilty about that sure, but at the same time Matsukawa can’t help but feel a little serendipitously lucky to have things playing out as they are now.

It may feel a little awkward, but it’s no hardship to sit back and watch Hanamaki work.

He picks up where he’d apparently left off, dabbing cream over his eyelids one at a time before picking up a large looking palette that Matsukawa recognizes from his most recent Instagram post. It’s black with a dozen or so circles of vibrant eyeshadow; it’s a veritable rainbow from sunflower yellow to royal violet and every color in between.

Today though, Hanamaki seems to be going for something—_bold_.

Matsukawa watches with open fascination as he swipes a soft brush through a swatch of bright neon blue, bringing it up to press into his primed lids but not before sliding his gaze over to Matsukawa with a purposeful, sultry wink. 

What was it he’d said before? Not every take has to be perfect the first time.

But, if the fluttering in Matsukawa’s chest is any indication, _he_ at least finds that take to need absolutely no amount of editing at all.

From that point on Matsukawa doesn’t feel quite so awkward being Hanamaki’s private audience. 

It’s one thing, he learns quickly enough, to watch Hanamaki through the screen of his phone, hear his voice slightly tinnier through the speakers giving instructions like it’s second nature. But now Matsukawa sees the real thing, the way Hanamaki’s hands move maybe a bit more hesitantly than they appear in the edited version, watching him pause and repeat lines or smile cutely at the camera two or three different times to get the angle he thinks is best. He’s good at it, not just with application or technique, but the way he speaks and multitasks, switching between applicators and showing off products with the ease of practice and professional experience. 

Matsukawa can’t help it—he’s absolutely and hopelessly enthralled. 

By the end of it, Hanamaki’s painted himself with a sharp, bold look that’s so poignantly familiar, so much like those photographs from Matsukawa’s coffee table, that he can’t help wondering when Hanamaki had decided take his encouragement to heart. 

Of course, he’s under no illusion that the look is for Matsukawa alone—the pride in Hanamaki’s expression as he shows off the final look, fluttering his thick false lashes and blowing a cheeky kiss to the camera with shiny lacquer lips is enough to prove to anyone, even himself, that _bold_ is well within his wheelhouse.

But when he turns the camera off, starts to pad over to the couch in his muscle-hugging leggings and oversized shirt, when he doesn’t bother even mentioning taking the makeup off first—Matsukawa starts to think this part, _this part_ is definitely for him. 

Because if ever there was a time for eloquent speaking, Matsukawa greets him the best he can. “Uh, hi.”

Hanamaki doesn’t seem to mind the fumbling, moving to lounge next to Matsukawa. He fits him with a fond smirk, tilting his head before responding. “Hi there.” 

It’s a tease, of course it is. But does Hanamaki realize that he could do absolutely nothing but sit there and look Matsukawa in the face and it’d be enough to have his tongue tied in a dozen knots? 

Matsukawa swallows past the creeping wings of butterflies in his throat. “Thanks for letting me stay—and y’know, _watch_.”

Hanamaki shrugs, but his smile is genuine. Soft, even with the slick of inviting gloss. “It was kind of fun, thinking about you as my secret audience.” 

Matsukawa studies him. Now that he can see it up close he notices the precise cut crease of Hanamaki’s neon blue eye shadow, the glittery liner, the delicate little holo-jewels he’d pressed underneath his lower lashes. The grey of his irises glow with veins of silver and jade and that might be the loveliest part of it all. 

“I like it,” Matsukawa says, closing the gap between them by just a fraction more. “The makeup I mean. It’s—you went with bold.”

“I did,” Hanamaki nods, averting his gaze almost bashfully. “Thought I should try something new, step out of my comfort zone.”

Matsukawa wonders if there’s a double meaning there, something deeper that he should try to carefully excavate. But instead of digging into Hanamaki’s thoughts, he decides maybe he aught to focus on his own meaning first. 

“I think—” he hesitates, but only for as long as it takes for Hanamaki’s eyes to meet his own again. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Hanamaki smiles, even softer than before. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Matsukawa confirms. “I was thinking—maybe I’d start doing the same thing.”

“Trying something new?” Hanamaki chuckles, bringing his palms up to delicately pat at his own cheeks in some type of exaggerated preening. “Thinking about applying some of my techniques, Issei?”

“Uh—I mean, actually I won’t say no to that if you’re willing to help.” The words tumble out of Matsukawa’s mouth, abruptly honest. “But I was thinking of something a little different.”

Hanamaki pretends to pout. “Rain check?”

“Definitely,” Matsukawa affirms because it’s absolutely been something he’s imagined before. Especially if it would make Hanamaki happy. He wonders if applying eye liner is as difficult or dangerous as it looks—

“So—” Hanamaki prompts, knocking Matsukawa out of his thoughts. He looks a little impatient, like he’s been left on read. Which Matsukawa supposes he sort of has been—maybeeven for longer than just the past minute between them.

Matsukawa scoots over until his thigh bumps into Hanamaki’s knee where it’s half propped up on the cushions. “I just want to clear things up a little. I mean—I want us to both be on the same page,” he explains, swallowing back his nerves. “About us.”

Hanamaki studies him openly, not cowering away from the conversation, but there’s something about his expression. Almost guarded in a way that Matsukawa can understand, all things considered, but it’s something he objectively dislikes, something he’d very much like to help change.

“Us,” Hanamaki says slowly, carefully. “Wasn’t sure there was an ‘us.’”

Matsukawa’s fingers curl into fists, surpassing the urge to reach out and touch. But not too soon, he can’t do anything too soon. “Do you—want there to be?” he asks, trying with all his might to keep his voice steady and level. 

At this Hanamaki grants him a small gift, a smile that’s certainly meant to reassure. “Isn’t that why we’re having this conversation?”

If there was a time to lock things down, make all this mercurial talk of feelings and intangible ideas into something concrete, it has to be now. 

“I want there to be an us,” Matsukawa admits, averting his eyes as though he’s spent too long gazing into the sun. “I like you—I _really_ like you, Hiro.” 

A gasp, maybe. The sound is so small, not much more than a breath, but Matsukawa can feel it puff out on his cheek as Hanamaki leans into him. He’s pulled in by some magnetic force and suddenly he’s close enough that he can see where Hanamaki had attempted to cover his freckles with a light layer of foundation and powder.

It’s so—

He’s so—

Matsukawa curls his fingers tighter, bites over his tongue and let’s Hanamaki have this moment in his own time. 

“I uh—I like you too, Issei,” Hanamaki says finally, entirely too shy for the proximity, the heat, the way his lips are coated in such a seductive lacquer. 

It’s not as though these words haven’t been said to one another before, each in their own way. But this—somehow this time it hits different.

Here—here it is laid out between them. Two genuine confessions, as meager and fumbling as school-yard crushes sealed away in lilac envelopes, cherry blossoms littering the ground beneath pigeon-toed feet. 

“I—I don’t want you to think that it’s just because you’re gorgeous or really great in bed.” Matsukawa stumbles for words, feeling like he’s rolling downhill now with no way of stopping his forward momentum. “I mean, those things are just givens at this point—but I want you to know that I like you for you.”

Hanamaki blinks, pauses like he hadn’t been expecting that. “For—me?”

“Yeah,” Matsukawa says, bringing a brave hand forward to rest against Hanamaki’s thigh. The fabric of his leggings is soft and taught, giving way to the plush curve of muscle that Matsukawa kneads his fingers into on instinct alone. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again because I’m serious—you’re talented and hilarious; ambitious and sweet. I feel so comfortable with you—it’s like I’ve known you for way longer than just a couple of months. I probably sound insane, but I feel like we just—I don’t know, we just _fit_.”

“You don’t—” Hanamaki’s voice comes out so thick he has to clear his throat, start over from the beginning. “_You_ _don’t _sound insane.” 

Matsukawa’s fingertips catch on the inside of Hanamaki’s knee. “Okay, that’s—” he has to pause, has to swallow too. “That’s good.” 

There’s a pause, not as awkward as maybe it should be and Matsukawa wonders at the implications of that. He’s comfortable here, rubbing his thumb along Hanamaki’s inner thigh, breathing in the same warm air building between them. Comfortable enough to sit and wait out the silence, just being here—together.

It takes a moment or two for him to notice Hanamaki’s shift in demeanor. Matsukawa’s studying the shimmer at the corner of Hanamaki’s bright blue eyeshadow when his gaze catches on a telling quirk of those glossed lips.

And then—

Hanamaki starts laughing, vibrant and velvet and genuine. He laughs so hard that his entire being seems to vibrate with it, a hand coming up to cover his wide grinning mouth, his eyes squeezing shut with the force of his rounding cheeks, nothing more than half-moon crescents painted in glitter and neon.

“What?” Matsukawa feels his own mouth hanging open, partially in disbelief and partially in simple awe of the sight in front of him. “What’s so funny, huh?”

“It’s just—” Hanamaki gasps out, trying to catch his breath through the last of his giggles. He brings himself closer, plastering a conspiratorial smirk on his still trembling lips. “I’ve never had someone care enough to chase me like this before.”

Matsukawa feels taken aback, but in the best sort of way if that’s at all possible. Something tickles down beneath his chest, something a bit flustered and shy.

He furrows his brow, averts his gaze. “That makes me sound a little pathetic, don’t you think?” he murmurs, affecting more of a pout than he’d intended. 

“No, not pathetic at all,” Hanamaki answers right away, quick to dissuade Matsukawa’s sudden shyness. “It’s—it makes me feel wanted, Issei.”

Matsukawa’s eyes drift back up, reeled in to Hanamaki’s open features. He’s painted from the flesh up, every line and press of powder masterfully executed and effortlessly beautiful. But right now, despite all of that, Hanamaki’s regarding him in the most naked of ways.

It’s without question, Matsukawa’s most favorite look so far.

_How could anyone not want someone like you? _he thinks with a tremble of disbelief. 

Matsukawa’s muscles tense up for a second, but the feeling smooths away almost instantly when Hanamaki’s smile turns even softer.

“Can I ask you something?” Hanamaki wonders, voice low but steady.

Matsukawa nods before he can even think. “Yeah, of course.”

“Who was that woman?” he says. “The one that came to your apartment?” 

Something ice cold churns in Matsukawa’s gut at the memory of Hanamaki’s retreat that morning, the way he couldn’t bare to even look Matsukawa in the eye as he fled. He can only begin to imagine the amount of anxiety Hanamaki might’ve been experiencing, how embarrassing it might’ve felt for him. 

But the thing is, there hadn’t been a need for any of that and Matsukawa feels even more pained by the realization that Hanamaki may have been going through it for the entire week. 

“Her name’s Sakurai Yuna,” Matsukawa answers simply, going for calm and direct so as to clear up any misunderstanding as fast as humanly possible. “And before you ask, we went on two dates like six months ago and that’s the whole story.”

“You don’t—” Hanamaki stumbles, a flush of red creeping up his neck. “You don’t have to explain. It’s really none of my business, I was just curious is all.”

The easy mirth from before is replaced once again with some brand of insecurity Matsukawa hasn’t quite pinned down yet. The thing he does know for certain is how much he dislikes it, how much he wants to help Hanamaki wipe it clear from his slate forever. 

“I know I don’t have to, but I’m going to,” Matsukawa explains. He goes slow with his wording, not to condescend, but to be precise in his point. “Because I need you to understand that you have nothing to worry about.” 

Matsukawa emphasizes this by trailing his hand up Hanamaki’s leg, up to grasp at his hand, to curl around warm, ring-adorned fingers. 

“Okay.” Hanamaki nods, staring down at their intertwined hands. “So, is she not your type or something?”

Matsukawa breathes in, swallows once to steady himself. “I think you know my type, Hiro.” 

Hanamaki doesn’t look up, but his fingers flex a bit in Matsukawa’s grip. “She’s really beautiful, tall too,” he says, effectively avoiding Matsukawa’s pointed answer. 

Matsukawa can’t help but chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all. “Well yeah, she’s a model,” he says because it’s true. 

“You dated a model?” Hanamaki looks up, bewildered. His eyes are wider now, the false lashes fluttering like fluffy fern fronds. “And you’re serious about her not being your type?”

Matsukawa looks at him, really looks at him hard. Hanamaki’s searching him for an answer and it’s clear he’s just waiting on the edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But—Matsukawa’s got nothing left to let go of. It’s all here, still free falling into Hanamaki’s uncertain grip. 

“I don’t think I’m exactly _her_ type either,” Matsukawa says, because that’s certainly true too. “We’re just industry friends, really.” 

“Oh, well—” Hanamaki bites over his bottom lip, drawing undue attention to the plush pout. “Sorry uh, for jumping to conclusions.”

Matsukawa bites back a sigh. “You don’t have to apologize. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” 

“It’s just—I shouldn't’ have run out like that. I felt really stupid afterwards.”

“Takahiro?”

“Yeah?”

“Let me repeat.” Matsukawa squeezes his hand, going one step further and pulling until Hanamaki’s entire body has to move forward into Matsukawa’s space. “You have nothing to worry about. You have nothing to apologize for.”

Hanamaki gapes at him, his eyes shamelessly flipping between Matsukawa’s eyes and his mouth. So—it’s clear that Matsukawa isn’t the only one affected by the chemistry building here. 

Building and building for longer than just this one particular point of contact. 

Hanamaki eases further into him, popping up on his knees and resting his free hand against Matsukawa’s shoulder. “Okay,” he whispers, smiles something so pretty it aches. “Okay, Issei.” 

And then, without any given warning, he pinches hard at the skin of Matsukawa’s arm.

“Hey!” Matsukawa startles, his turn to gape this time. He’d been expecting something between them, but a pinch certainly hadn’t been it. "What was that for?”

“Sorry, just—just have to make sure you’re real and I’m not dreaming or some shit,” Hanamaki says. He snickers the last bit where he burrows his face into the side of Matsukawa’s neck. 

Matsukawa frowns, though he feels nothing but warm affection coursing through him. “I think you’re supposed to pinch _yourself_.” 

“Why would I wanna do that?” Hanamaki hums, muffled into Matsukawa’s skin. “Hey—d’you wanna order some food or something, I’m starved.”

Matsukawa gently pushes at Hanamaki’s shoulders, trying to wriggle just a bit to see his face again. “Is this a date now?”

“No way,” Hanamaki scoffs, tilting his head to fit Matsukawa with a pretty smirk. “Our first official date can’t be eating takeout in my living room after I suck you off.”

“Why not—” Matsukawa shrugs, but pauses halfway through his thought. “Wait—what?”

Hanamaki scrambles backwards off the couch, skirting out of Matsukawa’s grip when he moves forward to chase after him. “What are you in the mood for? Donburi? Yakitori? Cheeseburgers?”

He’s practically prancing over to the kitchen where Matsukawa can see a few takeout menus posted up by the refrigerator. The shirt he’s wearing is oversized, but not quite long enough to hide the way those leggings hug the curves of Hanamaki’s ass. Matsukawa makes quick work of following after him, feeling a bit unsteady on his feet and trying his best not to stumble.

He skids over the tile in Hanamaki’s kitchen, reaching forward to tug at his arm. “Hiro, did you really just—”

Hanamaki spins, nearly knocking into Matsukawa, but before anything else can be said Hanamaki’s got his palms on either side of Matsukawa’s jaw, holding him in place. 

“C’mon, Issei,” Hanamaki husks, looking up through is lashes in the most knowing way. “Let me suck you off.”

“Right now?” Matsukawa practically squeaks. He feels like his brain is still loading, like there’s a pinwheel in there that just keeps spinning and spinning. “Didn’t we just get through an emotionally vulnerable heart-to-heart?”

“Yeah I know, I don’t get it either.” Hanamaki shrugs, angling himself so he can push a little further into Matsukawa. “But I haven’t been this horny in months.” 

Matsukawa thinks maybe he aught to argue that, considering what they’ve been doing together the past couple of months, but he manages to tuck away his offense in favor of more pressing matters. Namely the way Hanamaki reaches out to tug Matsukawa’s hand to his crotch, molding his palm to the surprisingly hard cock tucked beneath his all-too thin leggings. 

Matsukawa’s not certain he’s going to be able to live through this. “Are you—are you even wearing underwear?”

Puffing his cheeks out, Hanamaki fits Matsukawa with a pouty look. “Issei—I thought we were being emotionally vulnerable?”

Matsukawa sputters. “S-sorry—”

“_Kidding_,” Hanamaki snickers, grinding forward into Matsukawa’s hand.“Just wanted to be sure you wanted it too before things get any heavier.”

They haven’t even done anything yet and Matsukawa feels out of breath, like his heart is having trouble keeping up. “Thanks for your consideration,” he snarks, voice nearly catching. 

“Always, Issei,” Hanamaki nods, quite serious. “Now—are you gonna let me suck you off?”

Matsukawa’s gaze dips around the room before focusing back in on Hanamaki’s waiting mouth. “Here—in the kitchen?”

“Where else?” Hanamaki says. “I don’t exactly have that many spots to choose from. We can move to the bed and be vanilla if you really want to.”

“I’m not the one going down on my knees,” Matsukawa explains, feeling the need for at least some self-preservation of his ego. He’s got nothing against vanilla, but it’s definitely not what he wants right now if _other_ things are being handed over on a silver platter. “If you want it here, then by all means let’s do it here.”

“I’m so glad we’re on the same page,” Hanamaki grins, going so far as to wink.

“One thing first,” Matsukawa blurts out, probably louder than strictly necessary considering their current proximity. He feels nervous and excited all at once, so much so he might actually be trembling a bit. “Promise me this isn’t going to negate any of what we just talked about?”

“_Issei_.” The way Hanamaki says his name, so slowly and with such conviction, has Matsukawa nearly melting into his grasp. “You just reciprocated my immensely embarrassing school-boy crush on you and I’m fucking hard as hell asking to blow you in a full face of makeup. Do we need to discuss further how perfect you are for me?”

Matsukawa swallows, steadies himself by shamelessly groping Hanamaki through his leggings one last time. “N-no,” he says with all the strength he can muster. 

“Good. Now, switch spots with me,” Hanamaki nods, tugging so that he can be pressed up against the small kitchen counter. “Shit—you’re so fucking hot.”

Matsukawa can’t help but laugh, even if it is somewhat breathless. “Me? Have you seen yourself?”

Hanamaki purposefully flutters his lashes. “Thought I was _pretty?_”

“Pretty, hot, gorgeous, _etherial_—”

“Okay, okay I get it—_flatterer_,” Hanamaki snorts, but now he’s sporting a very nice blush on his cheeks that Matsukawa enjoys being the cause of. “Now, are you gonna fuck my face or not?”

Hanamaki had always been mouthy, ever since that first night. It’s one of the things that drew Matsukawa in, but definitely not the only thing that made him stay. Matsukawa can’t help remembering how much Hanamaki liked his dirty words in return, so he harnesses the heat that’s been brewing in his gut and decides that if this is the way Hanamaki wants to play, Matsukawa is more than happy to give it to him. 

“Oh is that what you want?” Matsukawa murmurs, moving in to press Hanamaki even further into the counter. He curls a hand up, grasping at Hanamaki’s sharp jaw. “You want me to fuck your pretty mouth, Hiro?”

Hanamaki’s plush lips are pursed from Matsukawa’s grip. “_Fuck_—yeah, I do,” he murmurs out, eyes going dark and even more heavy lidded than usual. 

Matsukawa has to move one step backwards in order to let Hanamaki move, but when he does it’s with such fluid and practiced ease that he falls straight to his knees, trapped between Matsukawa’s legs and the kitchen cabinets. The sight is close to deja vu, the feeling of Hanamaki’s hands grasping Matsukawa’s thighs even more so.

Matsukawa’s mind works over-time imagining all the scenarios of how this could go, but Hanamaki doesn’t seem to have much patience for daydreaming as his fingers scramble to undo Matsukawa’s pants. 

“Gonna mess up your makeup,” Matsukawa mutters, looking down at the gems pressed under Hanamaki’s eyes, the sharp angled blue painted over his lids. “_Again_.”

Hanamaki looks up at him through eyeliner and thick lashes. “You know I like it.”

“Yeah,” Matsukawa hums, swallows. “I do.”

Of all the scenarios possible, Matsukawa’s mind seems to land on a particularly dirty image of Hanamaki’s cheeks streaked in black rivulets, his eyes wet and foggy, every bit of gloss rubbed from his lips and replaced by something equally shiny and wet. 

When Hanamaki finally manages to tug him loose out of his briefs, Matsukawa is hard and full and red in his hand. 

“See something you like?” Hanamaki smirks, giving Matsukawa a few testing strokes. 

Matsukawa already feels a moan building in his throat and Hanamaki’s barely done anything at all. “What do you think?” he murmurs back, brain growing too weary to come up with anything better.

For as much as he seems to enjoy their usual banter, Hanamaki just hums instead of further riling before dipping forward to press his thick lips to the head of Matsukawa’s cock.

At this Matsukawa finally lets  loose the moan growing inside his chest. He feels slightly off balance, like his body wants to melt backwards but in this position he’s not the one caged in. So instead, Matsukawa does what he knows Hanamaki intended by their little swap in position earlier and starts to add the bare minimum pressure, guiding his hips forward rather than back.

Hanamaki doesn’t protest, instead moving to take more of Matsukawa into his mouth, his lips curling and his tongue swiping over the bottom of his length to taste and tease. The further he goes, the further Matsukawa pushes forward until Hanamaki’s taken nearly all of his cock, the wet sounds of his hollowing mouth and Matsukawa’s steady breathing the only thing heard between them. 

“_Fuck_,” Matsukawa hisses, reaching forward to steady himself against the kitchen counter. It provides a slightly new angle, enough so that Hanamaki has to shift on his knees, lowering himself even further and allow his head to finally make full contact with the cabinet behind him. 

He knew Hanamaki was good at sucking cock, but Matsukawa had sorely underestimated his abilities up until now. The mouth around him contorts, sucking and hollowing and pulling Matsukawa in further than he thought possible, so far that he breaches the back of Hanamaki’s throat, causing the other’s muscles to spasm—but only for a second. 

Hanamaki is breathing still, but it’s ragged. Matsukawa can’t bring himself to seat his cock fully into his throat, hips bobbing between pushing in and pulling back. But then Hanamaki’s bringing his hands up to grasp at the back of Matsukawa’s thighs, pulling him in without much hesitation at all. 

“Careful,” Matsukawa feels himself say, the warning not much more than an impulsive breath. He looks down to find Hanamaki’s eyes staring up at him, wide and glistening. If his mouth weren’t so stretched, Matsukawa would swear that the other man was smirking at him.

Hanamaki gives him another little pull, his throat closing around the head of Matsukawa’s cock and his lashes fluttering with the sensation. At the corner of his eyes, where the dark liner cuts out along a swatch of blue, there’s a small shine of moisture already starting to form. 

Matsukawa had been hoping for something close to that first night, Hanamaki on his knees, mouth open to willingly smear his lipstick with pre-cum and spit. But this—_this_ is so much better than anything he could have imagined. 

Hanamaki pushes at Matsukawa’s legs and he pulls back immediately, a wave of concern running through him until Hanamaki takes a single deep breath of air before pulling Matsukawa straight back in.

Okay—so this is how it’s going to go. 

This—Matsukawa can handle this. 

Threading his fingers into Hanamaki’s short strawberry hair, Matsukawa drags his cock over that hot, wet tongue. He pushes in experimentally, pulls back and quirks a brow when Hanamaki’s eyes angle back up to meet his again. He nods, as best he can, and Matsukawa’s grip grows just a little bit firmer. 

The sensation is close to heaven, Hanamaki’s throat closing around his cock as Matsukawa pushes in, pulls out, pushes in again—this time even further. It’s warm and wet, hot and tight. Hanamaki gags a few times, but holds so tight to Matsukawa’s thighs, reassuring him that’s it’s okay, that this is okay. 

That this is what he wants too. 

Matsukawa watches him carefully, tilting his hips in and grinding as carefully as he can with Hanamaki pinned against the cabinets like this. For some it might’ve been a power trip, having someone so pliant and docile beneath them, letting their throat be fucked into like this. But for Matsukawa he can’t help but look down and admire the way Hanamaki’s eyes have glazed, his cheeks naturally flushed, his lips so rosy and swollen. 

He’s so—

Pretty. 

“You’re gonna make me come,” Matsukawa chokes, not having realized how fucked-out his own voice has become. He can only imagine what Hanamaki’s going to sound like after this.

Hanamaki tilts his head up as much as he can, blinks those thick-lashed eyes until two matching lines curl down his cheeks, marking them in dark-tinted tears. 

Matsukawa doesn't last much longer after that.

He fucks into Hanamaki’s mouth, down his throat. He curls over him, caging him against the counter and thrusting in as though he’s fucking into him from behind, Hanamaki’s moans muffled into the pillows. Only now Hanamaki’s moans are muffled against the wet, slick sounds of Matsukawa fucking his throat. 

When he comes he pulls back enough that most of it lands on Hanamaki’s tongue, some of it dripping down the swollen plush of his bottom lip. 

Matsukawa’s breathing heavily. He releases his probably painful grip on Hanamaki’s hair, taking a step back and pushing up to his full height.

But—Hanamaki just sits there on his knees, mouth hanging open, cheeks ruddy, and breath coming out in ragged pants from the back of his throat. The corner of his eyes are smeared with tears and ruined makeup, the gloss from his lips since replaced. 

Matsukawa observes him, watching the foggy look in Hanamaki’s gaze but it doesn’t seem to be receding anytime soon. Hanamaki just huffs, mouth open and tongue painted white and wet.

Taking the cue, Matsukawa kneels down before him, bringing a gentle thumb up to swipe at Hanamaki’s lower lip. “Gonna swallow?” he murmurs, feeling Hanamaki’s own headspace starting to pull him in as well. 

Hanamaki stares at him, nostrils flaring as he sucks in one last breath before closing his lips and swallowing everything in one go. His throat bobs with the motion, drawing Matsukawa’s eye. He can just make out the thump of Hanamaki’s ribcage beneath his shirt, heart clearly pounding. 

“That’s good, pretty,” he says and when Hanamaki’s eyes focus in on him again he adds, “That’s good, Hiro.” 

Hanamaki blinks a few times, seeming like he’s coming back into himself. Matsukawa allows his own gaze to dip down to see that Hanamaki’s still very much hard inside his leggings. 

When Matsukawa reaches for him, Hanamaki stumbles. “What—what are you doing?”

Matsukawa stops, hesitates for only a second before bringing his mouth forward to press against Hanamaki’s own. “Your turn,” he breathes between them and reaches for Hanamaki’s waist.

For a second it almost seems as though Hanamaki might turn him away, but whatever uncertainty he harbors seems to wash away the second Matsukawa’s fingers dip in to find that he, in fact, is _not_ wearing anything underneath those sinful leggings. 

“Okay?” Matsukawa murmurs against Hanamaki’s jaw before pressing wet kisses into his heated skin.

Hanamaki nods, a few small aborted motions, then groans out in relief when Matsukawa finally wraps his palm around his aching length. The flesh is soft and smooth, wet near the tip where he’s apparently been leaking pre-cum throughout this entire escapade so far. If he’d been wearing underwear they’d certainly be soaked through, but instead his leggings are sticky against Matsukawa’s hand and wrist. 

Matsukawa jerks him in quick, clean motions—careful to go slow and tender like Hanamaki needs, but also clinical in order to get him off before fatigue can start to get the better of both of them.

Hanamaki is melting into him, making such lovely sounds in his ear. His head leans against Matsukawa’s shoulder, nose nuzzling against the side of his neck, tickling with each huff of breath. He moans, hips canting forward, so Matsukawa grips him just a bit tighter, twists just a bit firmer. He thinks about the way Hanamaki’s throat had hugged his own cock mere moments before and tries his best to mimic the sensation—

When Hanamaki comes his entire body tenses, his lips mouthing nonsense into Matsukawa’s collar. It’s warm and wet over Matsukawa’s fingers and when he rubs up over the head of Hanamaki’s cock, he trembles with sensitivity. 

“Holy fuck,” Hanamaki gasps out and Matsukawa peels open his eyes, wondering when he had even closed them to begin with.

He finds Hanamaki in front of him, still kneeling on the floor—both of them there together in Hanamaki’s kitchen covered in cum and smeared lip gloss and each other. 

Matsukawa shouldn’t feel so giddy with affection, probably.

Probably. 

And yet—

When Hanamaki rolls his neck, bumping his nose against Matsukawa’s own, bringing their lips together into something soft and decidedly sweeter than anything so far—he can’t help but to let that well of affection grow. 

“_Fuck_,” Hanamaki mumbles again, sounding somehow relieved and euphoric all at once. “I _really_ like you too, Issei.”

Matsukawa has so much he wants to say to that, but he feels like he’s said too much today already. So instead—he leans forward to steal another sugary kiss, gloss and all.

It’s answer enough, he thinks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/hlovelyyy)   
  



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